Black Angel
by Aaraidea
Summary: It's been one year since the Fall. John's been left, suffering the after effects, slowly recovering the best he can. But in Sherlock's death, if he did really die, something stranger was emerging. A silent war. Mysterious birds. Shadows. Eyes. Dreams. And there was only one man John knew who could cause it all. So was he really dead?
1. One More Miracle

**Chapter 1**

_Life was tough. _

_Life was different._

_Life was meaningless, and empty._

_What was life now?_

The words made him awake from the nightmares every time, they were the words that put him on edge, made him wonder whether anything was worth living now. How could he continue this way, waking up with red eyes, a dry throat and the undying need to scream in fear, to scream at him when he jumped, again and again in his nightmares? It was bad enough enduring the mental scars the war left in his dreams. Now he was left with something much worse.

First it was comrades being blown up next to him.

Now it was watching a friend fall from the roof.

What never left him was that one feeling. That one, miniscule little feeling, that maybe, just maybe…

Was he still alive?

Was the blood on the pavement a lie?

Was his one last wish answered?

Did the man who he knew better than anyone else really perform one last miracle?

Was he not the lie, in his final words, he called himself?

Was Sherlock still alive?

"Pull yourself together, Watson," he whispered, alone. He escaped the cold, sweat covered sheets of his bed and proceeded to follow his morning routine of splashing his face with water and hoping he'd look unaffected from the nightmares in the mirror.

"Miracles don't happen…"

* * *

"_And so here we are again. Only this time there's no getting out."_

"_What are you talking about?"_

"_I don't know how you did it, I've no idea what happened to me either. I gotta say, I'm impressed. Didn't think you'd figured it out."_

"_I'm sure you'd love to know…"_

"_And believe me I do. But I'm tired."_

"_That's certainly a change in tone."_

"_It was meant to end there and then. Here we are again, but the odds are not in your favour."_

"_Oh believe me, I can tell. Despite all that, I'd love to know how you still walk."_

…

"_You won't."_

* * *

"Bloody machine…" he mumbled, entering his pin for the fifth time. Finally it had accepted his card, once again a penny away from debt. Life's little problems, work, money and the bloody chip and pin machine. The robotic voice of the women asked him to finally remove his card and allowed him to pick up his two bags of shopping. One filled with the rustling of food against plastic, the other rattling with wine bottles. It had taken him a month to leave the flat without having to eventually retreat back to stare at the vacant seat opposite him.

He walked out and called a taxi, the all-too-familiar black cab pulling up next to him on the side of the road, its brakes squealing as it stopped. He told the cabbie, hopefully not a serial suicide killer where he wished to go, and slammed the door behind him when he was seated alone. Three months it had taken him to finally get to further destinations in the comfort of a London cab rather than the packed tube, unable to sit unaccompanied in the cab knowing no-one was beside him.

The red sign of Speedy's Café reflected against the window, and with a small payment to the cabbie that drove off in a flash with the gurgling rumble of the engine, he walked up to the looming black door, the metal of '221B' wearing down after the months of heavy rain. The city was beginning to grow dark that evening and very few people walked past, mainly to enter or exit the café next to him, with the window filled with newspaper articles linking to the man that once lived next door among job requests and advertising. It had taken him five months to bare to read any of the articles in the window before they were taken down, knowing that a large majority were going to be filled with the criticising words of desperate journalists and editors.

The door thudded as he slowly closed it, the landlady saying her greeting as he mindlessly nodded while proceeding up the stairs. The landlady who had stuck by his side told him various messages were left on the phone about the nearing evening, as he placed the bags on the table and placing the four wine bottles out amongst the small 'meal for one' packet alongside, proceeding to place various snacks next to it. It had also taken him five months to begin talking to people other than the landlady, needing to talk to someone who wasn't criticising the man in the newspapers and was actually on his side. The detective inspector, the morgue attendant, even the man who was basically the British Government, all the only ones he could talk to.

There was one thing he never stopped doing, but could only do alone. Every day when he was free from work, after a week of locking himself away from the world, he would go out. He would walk all the way without complaint, despite the slow return of his psychosomatic limp. In the early morning he'd arrive and sit on a nearby bench, before beginning the long walk back home to an empty flat and staring at the empty chair opposite. A man, alone in the cemetery on the wooden bench, staring at a black tombstone only a few metres away and doing nothing more than breathe, and sighing every couple of minutes at the memories washing over him again and again. No matter what the weather, a boiling summer sun to the cold rain of autumn, even the sheet ice of winter couldn't stop him from reaching that gravestone, sitting at that bench. No matter what the weather, or the conditions, good or bad night's sleep, he'd sit there wearing the worn out jacket from the years of investigations, sitting near what remained of his friend. The closest thing he had left.

Now it had been one year.

One year alone in the walls of 221B, nothing to do, no-one to really talk to. A long year that had felt like twelve, each month dragging itself along around him as he recovered, the legendary and hidden battlefield he once knew now vanished before his eyes and the real world once more sinking in.

After this long year, now once again in the middle of a depressing autumn, he could think of nothing else to do; only one thing was on his mind. It had been settled out, almost planned. As he put out the five wine glasses on the table, it felt like he had done this so many times, but he was thinking of the days he spent alone with that gravestone and the evening's with the TV on, the half empty wine glass in his hand and him clinging onto the memories like they were his last breath. With everything set and prepared for the evening ahead, he sat in his chair and simply waited for the first ring of the bell.

* * *

"How you doing, John?"

"Fine… Just fine." That's all he could manage to say, despite the huge lie it was. He was sat at the end of the table, staring at the small drops of red wine at the bottom of his glass, desperate not to look into Lestrade's eyes after lying. Molly, Mrs Hudson and even Mycroft were present at the table, all quiet with a drink in front of them, the table clear of any previous equipment once spread across the table by his flatmate.

"May I ask what the plan is for this evening and a reason as to why I cancelled an important meeting," asked Mycroft lightly with a small sip from his glass. He was the most displeased person present.

"Grow a heart, Mycroft," hissed Lestrade. John made no effort to argue, or snap at his flatmate's older brother. "You know damn well why..."

"Boys, really?" exclaimed Mrs Hudson. "An argument? On a day like this?" The two exchanged a final glare and then there was another silent window in the evening. John stared at the table, looking for nothing and everything. How had his life become this wreck over one person?

"Uh… Shouldn't we, you know, get going before its dark?" whispered Molly, catching his attention and coughing.

"Yes, you're right." He stood fast and grabbed the metal crutch hanging on his seat, limping over to pick up his coat from his armchair, avoiding looking at the empty black chair opposite. Everyone followed afterwards, making no complaint of John's slow pace from his limp. Mrs Hudson was the last to exit and slammed the door behind her, joining them in the twilight of the cold street. John, at the fastest yet most comfortable pace he knew led the way immediately towards the cemetery, showing his refusal in getting a cab. The others followed behind at a leisurely stroll.

"Be honest with me, John," mumbled Lestrade as he caught up to him, trying to hide from the ears of the others. "You don't look great, you don't sound great and you definitely aren't coping great either. Are you sure you're okay? Don't you think you'd be less… gloomy, by now?" He kept a straight face and carried on walking, huffing a little.

"The day I find out some answers about what happened and the same day the world stops accusing him to be a fake is the day I'll move on," he whispered in reply. The inspector shot a worried look in the opposite direction and put on a small smile to show some sort of support.

* * *

The cemetery, quiet, empty, cold and dark, with five people sending some squabbling ravens fleeing to a nearby tree as they walked up to the black gravestone they were perching on. The soldier walked up, ignoring his usual instinct to take his place upon the bench and barely digging up the courage to stand straight in front of the black slab with the letters of his friend engraved on it, his now old friend, his _dead_ friend.

"John… John!?" He looked up in confusion, the numbness suddenly lifting like fresh steam and feeling the rain hit his skin, hearing it patter against his coat. The others were standing, waiting to go at the end of the path while Mycroft looked down at him with his looming umbrella held high. He couldn't bring himself to say anything. His voice was lost, swept away by the light wind. One last look at the gravestone was all he needed for that day, reminding him it had been a whole year. The raven that had re-perched on the top squawked at him.

He turned his back and heard the rustling. Mycroft's ears remained oblivious to it, but John turned to the trees behind to check. The gravestone raven still looked at him, letting the rain drench its feathers. The rustling didn't happen again to make John want to go and investigate, but he was still sure that it wasn't a bird or small animal. Nothing that he would find in a cemetery except another person…

The evening drew to a close, the others parting at the door to the flat. The rain poured down, soaking each individual till the cold numbed them to the core, even if they already were. He didn't enjoy seeing everyone leave; he didn't enjoy returning up the stairs. He didn't enjoy spending the rest of the evening till he regretfully fell asleep in the armchair with the empty bottle of wine by his side, but still feeling a small sense of achievement for making it this far after one year and now the reminder that he wasn't the only one who believed in him.

A year had now passed…


	2. The Dead Article

**Chapter 2)**

The everyday bore of work, but the desperate need for money in the day's current economy meant he had no choice but to follow through with the dreary hours. Patients walking in and out with coughs, colds, aches, pains and pale children, all slowly tapping away at the medical knowledge the doctor possessed. He could have a better job, longer hours, something to take his full focus. He could never bring himself to do it, to take on a full time job, for his full time job was killed along with him. However, the visit to the gravestone had left him in a better mood, smiling a little more around each patient, but over the next two days he noticed that the smiles weren't always returned.

Some patients scowled at him behind their eyes. John would have let it go unnoticed, thinking it to be some fear or anger at doctors. But at the same time patients who walked in to ask for medication or be diagnosed sometimes looked a little as they smiled at him, some sort of hidden wonder and respect. A young girl who was only eight, unaccompanied by her parents simply walked in and walked out, leaving a small rose alone on the table. John barely had time to question the young girl, before she even left the clinic.

With no-one to say a friendly 'Good night' to after Sarah had left for a different hospital and replaced with a grumpy overweight lady, he continued home that Friday evening still bemused by the differing reactions of people over the past few days.

The bitter afternoon wind caused him to leave the group of strangers huddled round an enlarged article in Speedy's Café window unnoticed, heading straight up to his lonely flat and going about his normal routine. A cup of tea, the telly on low and the entire evening to read through newspapers and catching up on the events of the past few days, always reminding him of when he'd be searching through for interesting cases for his friend to solve that he could then blog about.

Nearing the end of Wednesday's headlines, he skimmed over pages for any interesting stories that could leave a smile on his face or containing a possible warning of the future. It was dull, meaningless, until he saw a photo that made him choke on a sip of his tea. He looked over the other images and had to lay the paper out on the coffee table to stop it staining with specks of tea.

"Mrs Hudson!" He stared at the article for a few moments as the old lady walked up the stairs, seeming happy and content but now worried at his outburst.

"Is everything alright, dear?" John was breathing sharply and stood up, completely ignoring his limp and handing the paper to her. She smiled before looking down. "Have you read the papers recently then?"

"Why wasn't I told about this? You read the papers, why not leave it out for me to see? Did you even know this was out for the whole of the London, no, the whole the country to read?" John snapped slightly, trying to hold back his angered breath at the friendly landlady. She simply looked at the article more closely and gasped.

"I'm don't know what you're talking ab- Oh!" She exclaimed, beginning to read through the article silently, looking up at John now and again to see if he was still there, but he stood and looked at her like a stone statue. Knowing he also wanted to read it, she went over and laid the newspaper out fully on the desk, both focusing on the tiny article barely readable in the corner of the right page and the images just recognisable from the shrunken quality.

* * *

**In Memory of a True Genius**

**By Jane Milton**

People always tell me, even after a year, that he was never true. Even after a year people still tell me that the man was a fake, that the two men who were the two separate sides of the spectrum were fakes. Even after a year I still answer that nothing will change by belief in that true fact neither of them were fakes in the slightest form. The only fake attributes to these two men were whatever their immediate images portrayed.

At first-hand experience I saw the man who everyone judged, everyone eventually began pointing the finger at because they themselves couldn't process his abilities or because it gave the 'trustworthy' press a nice story to mould by taking the side of the man who was genuinely evil. The man I believe to be the genius he was, _forced_ into his suicide was far from fake, after watching him help solve a case involving the disappearance and then murder of my uncle.

A mind and man that should have been respected and cherished was torn apart and thrown away, but I stand believing that the man was genuine, a shadowed hero there to help those who are lost in the mess of life, even if he shows the complete lack of interest in it. Everyone is different, but sometimes the difference can be so great that modern society can't cope with it. It was modern society that brought this man down but I will stand, along with anyone who stands with me that we believe.

I say it now:

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

But what's more, is that I do not just believe in this great man, I believe in his enemy. But the man who committed the 'daylight robberies' all in one, the man who held contacts with organisations and gangs whom he could easily provide the power to hurt us, is our enemy too. We simply had no way of fighting him. Only one man knew how. While out greatest enemy may be dead, a man with a mind almost parallel in the superiority to the first, it doesn't change the reality that he was the reason that so many crimes happened, why so many people were taken from their homes, or even killed. The enemy I speak of is more genuine than local gangs living round the corner from your house. He and Sherlock Holmes were the two most real men the world will have ever known.

James Moriarty was real.

These two were real, both real and nothing will change the views of me and the people by my side. Never stop believing, in them and those around you.

It's been one year, and I leave you with this.

_Sorry, and thank you, Mr Holmes._

* * *

John sat, reading through the article through several times and looking at the three pictures bunched at the bottom of the article, their captions small and short. The first picture was his old friend walking away from a case they'd solved, looking away from the camera and hidden anger at the impolite press, the simple caption of 'The great Sherlock Holmes' underneath. The second picture, the court case photo of Moriarty, with his smug grin spread across the skinny photo, 'Jim Moriarty, once our enemy.' But the last picture, the famous picture, and the reason he had been given the funny looks or the sympathetic smiles. The famous first photo of his friend in the deerstalker and John himself hidden behind wearing a worn down hat, trying to hide their faces with failure, and the longest caption, 'The consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant/blogger John Watson.'

There were more out there who were on the side John would always stand firmly on, after one year of believing he was alone with the few friends he had in holding this view, and after one year drowning in the pain he sees this. It could never have been published straight after, not with the papers roaring on about how it was all one great lie, nothing was true, just an act for childish attention involving the lives of others. Even now this article must have been _just_ published, what with such a large article shoved into the dingy corner of the last few pages. Deep down John hoped, even prayed, that he would not be the only one to read this.

He looked out the window, the sun beginning to set over the city. He still had nearly three hours before the darkness of the night would become a threat if he walked round the city, so decided he needed to make his trip fast, but calm. He needed to go to the cemetery, to go and sit at the bench, to look at his friend buried in the ground.

The bitter air made no way to stop him, trudging along with his crutch tapping against the ground or splashing in a puddle. Three ravens squawked at him from the cemetery fence as he started along the path towards the bench. He remained quiet, taking his seat, staring at the ground, recovering while still letting fragments of the article waver through his mind. He looked up, wanting to let the worries and memories of the past few days wash over.

The gravestone he looked to told a different story.

Slowly approaching through the damp grass, the shiny, black tombstone still in place still engraved with the familiar gold letters, but there was colour. A small bunch of flowers had originally been placed by Mrs Hudson and Molly at the anniversary, but now there was more, more colours, more flowers, even two candles, their flames extinguished after burning for hours.

There were believers, whether they had read the article or not. He was not alone. A lump formed in his throat, seeing the true belief that people actually possessed in his friend, hiding that opinion from society. He walked over and placed his hand on the grave, trying to find the words to quickly tell his friend how he felt, what the other believers felt, in just enough words before he choked on his own tears.

A single, deep breath.

"We still believe in you Sherlock, always have, and always will. The others and I, friends and believers alike, miss you…" He gulped; knowing though-out words were going unheard. He looked at his reflection in the stone, his hand resting against the top. "And I'm still waiting for that miracle…" He scoffed at himself, before walking away for an immediate trip home, unable to spend another second there without wanting to cry till the sun rose the next day. A raven on his spot on the bench kept its beady eyes firmly on him as he walked home.

John Watson was a lonely believer.

* * *

Joy and sorrow, two emotions he rarely experienced at the same time and not ones he was sure were right at the present time. The very next morning, after watching repetitive Saturday morning TV and unable to talk to Mrs Hudson as she was out at a doctor's appointment for her hip, John searched around for his battered mobile phone. Texts weren't going to be enough for what he had to say. With a quick speed-dial he held the mobile phone to his ear, hearing the dialling tone while looking at the news article in his lap. In the seconds he'd waited he'd skimmed over the article several times and always ending with his eyes on the picture of him and his old friend.

"Hello, is that John?"

"Greg!" John exclaimed at the answer. "Listen, have you got some time to talk?" He kept himself calm, so that he didn't splutter gibberish in excitement or mumbling from memories returning of the good days.

"I'm currently heading to a crime scene, but I have minute or two if you're quick. What's the problem?"

"Have you been reading the newspapers recently?"

"If you knew the truth about the amount of work I have right now you'd know why I haven't…" The mumbled tone almost painted an image of Lestrade walking along with stress enveloping the detective inspector's eyes.

"Have Anderson and Donovan been whispering lately? I think I could give you a reason why."

"When they're not talking about their heated love affair? Be a bloody miracle!" The laugh from Lestrade sounded like he needed it.

"They might try and keep the paper away from you, because I'm currently looking at a memorial article for Sher- Damn it…" John mentally cursed himself more harshly. He was so close to overcoming this stupid inability to say the man's name. "You know who I mean." He could almost hear Lestrade stopping in his tracks as his brain repeated what John had said over and over again.

"Someone _wrote _a memorial article on him!?"

"How many times do you want me to say it? Someone called Jane Milton wrote it an-"

"BLOODY HELL!" Lestrade shouted through the phone, though John clearly heard the hissing on Greg's lips as he stopped himself from cursing worse. "She wrote that!?"

"You know her?"

"Not until now," answered Lestrade, his voice lowering, almost mourning. "The crime scene I'm heading to… It's a murder scene. She's dead, John. The journalist is dead."

"You sure?" Unknown as to why, John felt empty. Yet it was plainly obvious. A voice brave enough to speak for Sherlock was now dead. They had been silenced for life.

"Let's just say I now know why my two 'colleagues' were more than a little interested when I said the women's name," he quietly hissed. "I have to go. Stay strong, Watson."

"Talk to you soon…"

Carelessly, he let the phone drop into his lap as the silence fell and some subconscious hope faded as it came forward. Murdered, all because of someone trying to hold a voice for Sherlock Holmes, the genius lying dead in the ground, the very thing that killed him. John tried to tell himself, convince himself, it was coincidence, or for a previous article written or even for mentioning Moriarty! They were outweighed by the first reason, the sheer meaning it held above all the others.

Someone wanted no voice of Sherlock Holmes to be heard, and whoever they were, wherever they were, they were willing to kill for it.


	3. Graffiti and Feathers

**Chapter 3**

A few weeks later, the revealed case of the journalist died down, the case left unsolved. While it was obvious the sheer blood loss was the cause of her death, there was no evidence what-so-ever to lead the police to the killer. Tiny holes lined her neck enough for string to go through, her wind pipe ripped to shreds within her and her last few breaths replaced with coughing up pints of blood. Editors broke out into a brawl over their own theories and sublimely messaging who's side they were on; the dead journalist and Sherlock or the supposed 'general public' and the murderer.

John ignored the rising number of scowls aimed at him by miserable patients, trying to take interest in absolutely anything but the looks. The distinctly secret rise in crime was one of them, only appearing before John after Lestrade's own words. Sadly, the interest caused him to start looking through newspapers more than usual, and did not realise what he was doing until suggesting an interesting case to an empty chair at the end of the room.

* * *

Christmas came and went, though this year was slightly more enjoyable than the last with it being so soon after the suicide. This year, he spent hours talking to Mrs Hudson, seeing Lestrade at the pub and for once smiling. Even Donovan and Anderson's scowling presence from the table in the corner couldn't stop the two good friends and co-workers of Sherlock Holmes having a laugh.

Stranger things were yet to emerge.

* * *

"_Ain't you meant'a be dead?"_

"_Raz's friends I presume? Here to assist me in a little project?"_

"_Just so you know, we're to'ally on your side!"_

"_Your friend doesn't seem so keen."_

"_What?"_

"_You do know I can easily tell who's lying and who's telling me the truth?"_

"_So you can say I'm tellin' the truth!"_

" _And like I said previously, your companion seems to disagree."_

"_He just hates smartass pricks, that all."_

"_So be it. Now my patience is wearing thin and we're running out of time. Ready to go give London a New Year message?"_

"_Lead the way, Lord Smartass…"_

"_Don't make me demonstrate how to knock a man unconscious with a single punch, there really aren't enough nearby volunteers present."_

* * *

An 11am starter was impossible to wish for, 10 am a miracle, 9am rare and 8am uncommon. Despite the main signs of a distracting hangover and only falling asleep by 2am, possibly later, John could never help waking up as early as this when the nightmares returned. 5 or 6am starts left him tired, cranky and beyond emotional unstable.

Nearly breaking into an argument with the toaster when the toast wouldn't come out, and the jam jar because the lid got stuck, finally sitting down to watch the news was a relief. It certainly wasn't the best start to New Year. With a steaming cup of tea beside him and toast burnt around the edges with jam on the top, the morning was so far allowing a decent recovery rate from the effects of last night's nightmares. John refused to see a specialist.

Sometimes the nightmares were the only things that helped him remember what his best friend looked like.

The early morning was bland, uneventful. An overlook of New Year celebrations, updates on the economy, the government, weather and the general nonsense occurring in London. With a bitter cold in the air while the frosty sin rose over a snowy London, John lit the tiny fire and decided to finally start taking down the few festive decorations and ornaments, placing them carefully back in their boxes. My midday he had put the boxes away in a storage cupboard among the boxes filled with scientific equipment he'd never use, dare not touch. The flat was back to its usual state, empty yet cosy from the mess of papers, books and the small fire crackling away.

He heard the knocker of the front door clatter as it was slammed shut and footsteps tapped on the wooden stairs.

"Oh, you've taken down the decorations by yourself?" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, placing a bag of shopping on the table.

"It's kept me occupied this morning…" answered John quietly. Mrs Hudson was the only one who knew that the nightmares were causing him lack of sleep; in fact she was the only one who knew John was suffering from lack of sleep in general.

"You poor thing… If you're not too tired could you put the telly on?" she asked kindly while putting away some of the shopping she'd got for John.

"Something happen while you were out?" he asked, finding the remote. The news started as Mrs Hudson stood by him while he sat in his armchair.

"There was some commotion by a wall as the taxi drove past, very strange-" She was cut off as the news story appeared on the television. At first it was just a reporter in front of an observing crowd, and then it cut to what was on the wall. What had caused so much attention, such a large crowd?

John couldn't believe his eyes.

**Believe in Sherlock Holmes**

* * *

Three locations, three different walls. One message. The media exploded and an editorial war broke out. The side John wished was winning… wasn't. So many papers stuck with their views from last year and so disapproving the messages graffitied on the walls of such busy areas. Few papers spoke out for the dead genius; it was proclaimed the graffiti was both a 'tribute to Sherlock Holmes' and 'a sad memorial to Jane Milton, the journalist recently murdered and the possible cause of these messages'. That one woman had sparked something among those who were on Sherlock's side, but then that spark was quickly diminished. It was that very murder that was keeping the 'believers', as they were now called, in the dark. It seemed even more likely to John that was what the murderer wanted in the first place.

It left the disapprovers of Sherlock Holmes to share their outrage in ten second interviews with members of the public, bias articles cleverly warped to seem completely in line with publishing rules. No-one wanted to be seen, to be heard, all in fear of being hunted down and shunned by society.

By the end of January, the only one of the first three sites had survived, the last one standing strong, secretly re-painted at night when it began to fade. There was little coverage, but it some channels reported about the message being painted throughout London in back alleys and popular graffiti sites. The nameless, faceless artists who dwelled in the shadows and were the current hope for the believers.

John was sure that the silent war would be won, but then who was he to predict the future. Yet if he made any attempt to utter a single word in his quietest tone, the world would stamp him out like a flame with the believers simply watching on in the crowd they didn't want to be among.

By the early days of June, the stories and coverage had long been forgotten. Yet the war continued, the main forces being the faceless artists of the London night and the unrelenting power of the media. Then there was John, silent, ordinary, trying to avoid any mix-up in it and completely bitter at times.

As the months had passed when the New Year started, he slightly wished the graffiti had never started. It gave the wrong message, breaking the law made it look like all believers in Sherlock were law-breakers, hooligans, unwanted members of society. He was happy more that there were others who believed, people fighting for the truth, yet seeing the graffiti made him tense up and bite his lip.

His reaction varied; simple messages like 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes', the original message or similar messages were enough for him to deal with on bad days, but fully blown scales of art, some with attempted portraits or silhouettes of the man plucked at his memories and left him fuming. But that was bad days. On normal days he ignored. On good days a smile may appear on his face.

Back in mid-March, not only had the war nearly fully taken to the shadows, but a war was happening within the force of the believers, however they luckily continued to fight the media, whatever their belief. It was the battle of those who believed in Sherlock, Moriarty and both men. 'Moriarty was real', taken from the Milton article, was the message that sparked the feud. At first John was unsure what to make of the believers in Moriarty but he had met that man. He was as real as his best friend. His reactions to the graffiti were similar to that of Sherlock's, but a smile never went towards the believers of Moriarty.

Sherlock was the true genius fighting the twisted mind of Moriarty.

The equal and opposite of each other.

* * *

March always seemed like a quiet month, few parties, holidays, and not many illnesses going round. The clinic was quiet, calm, and somewhat peaceful. Days were long but relaxed; his mind could work at a nice pace to keep up with the lack of sleep.

Though it wasn't a quiet month for someone else, for during the last hour of a Thursday work-shift, the last one John was having for that week, his phone vibrated and a text appeared.

**Drink at the pub tonight?**

**Can catch up on life.**

**-GL**

* * *

They met up at a nearby pub to Baker Street, Lestrade waving from a small table in the corner, two beers already at the table. It was a generally still night, the general background noise of clanking glasses, heavy footsteps and muffled chatter. John sat down calmly, smiling at his old friend. Conversation grew quickly, John mentioning the average days at work, the regular visits to the gravestone, Mrs Hudson making him feel less lonely at 221B and dealing with life, not mentioning the nightmares. Lestrade replied with occupying himself at work, still getting over the reality of the divorce. Despite his best efforts, Lestrade didn't quite hide the horror Sherlock's death brought to him, leaving a hole in career, and secretly his life. His shaky inability to know where to take his next step in a case reflected badly on that very fact.

Due to their similar friendships, conversation of the graffiti incident arose, but it didn't last long. They were both on the same side, they nod need to disagree or argue.

"So, how's the secret rise in crime going anyway?" asked John, taking his final down of his second pint as Lestrade came back with two more. Lestrade was soundless at first, intentionally taking a sip before answering.

"Staying the same," he answered, but lowered his voice, raising suspicion from John. "Despite the rise growing with every incident related with Sherlock, especially murders, we've had, and been able, to keep them away from the press…"

"I don't understand," said John blankly, keeping his voice very quiet though. Lestrade looked around, trying to decide whether it was safe to talk or not.

"I want to tell you, but it could jeopardize my whole career if the wrong person hears."

"Then we can go back to 221B to talk…" Lestrade sighed, nodded at the suggestion and downed his pint.

"Fine, but you go ahead. I need to get something from the car."

Later in the evening, after exiting the pub and heading through the dark streets of London, they were back at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson seemed occupied and the flat was dark when they headed upstairs. John made tea; Lestrade turned on the lights and placed a small pile of brown files on the desk. Eventually they were sat opposite each other at the desk, John waiting for Lestrade to talk.

"Well?"

"I said the crime rate increase has been linked to incidents with Sherlock right? It's this bloody 'war' going on!" started Lestrade, still quiet but slow, trying to decide how to explain. He occasionally looked up at John who was patiently looking on at him with a cup of tea in his hand, making him looked wise beyond his years while Lestrade looked back at the scratches on the wood.

"How can all this crime possibly be linked to a war?" asked John in disbelief. He couldn't imagine people being harmed due to a non-existent war.

"When that article was printed last year Jane Milton was found dead the next day. That's not it. After the graffiti on New Year, one of the three supposed artists behind the stunt was found dead, in a dumpster on the outskirts of London. We continued that investigation on for well over a month among other cases linked to the rising 'alley war'. Believers in Sherlock and Moriarty, civilians and graffiti artists alike were being mugged, some even murdered if they had strong beliefs or ties with Sherlock."

"I presume all he murders were solved?"

"No, but this is where it gets strange," started Lestrade, opening the top case file, showing the murder file on the graffiti artist, a photo of the young man's body in a dumpster, blood surrounding his body. John didn't have time to read how he died. "We were in-undated with cases. Some murders and assaults we could solve thanks to CCTV and because they were by drunken bastards, extremists and gits. Some were just too easy. Sadly, two cases of manslaughter because three drunken lads beat up a woman who mentioned Sherlock to a friend she was walking with. Beat her till she bled to death while her friend got away. The other was a bunch of kids picking on some young boy who claimed to know Sherlock because of his parents. They ran away when a punch to the head stopped him moving. It's been tragic these past few days. However, some cases we couldn't get our heads around, just like the Milton murder and this one…" The manslaughter cases left Lestrade a little choked up, especially the one with children, bringing up a deep fear for his children come to light. John wished he could say something sympathetic, but what could he say?

"But?"

"Just as we were about to close up the artist case, I found this." Lestrade turned the page of the file, took away the plastic wallet clipped there and handed the contents to John.

It was a sleek feather longer than the length of his palm and black as night, with a few clips round the edge from where it had gotten battered.

"Is this a raven's feather?" John exclaimed. Ravens were the only the black bird he thought of now, the only bird that seemed to be present in the graveyard. Lestrade shook his head.

"I had it examined by a specialist after we found the artist's murderer. It's of no bird or any creature for that matter."

"Wait, this helped you find the murderer!?"

"It had been placed on the desk. I thought at first it was some sort of assassins mark, you know, like the Black Lotus origami flower?"

"I see what you mean. Is it?"

"It would have been if this wasn't underneath it," Lestrade answered, sliding the profile of a middle-aged man to him. "We found out the same bloke was a highly trained assassin who killed the artist. There are theories he had old connections with Moriarty. The point is when we asked him about the feather he knew nothing."

"So what is this?" asked John in confusion, waving the feather slightly. Lestrade finished a sip of his tea and laid back in his chair.

"A godsend. A miracle. The first of many." He spread the rest of the case files out, all with different amounts of the same black feathers, slightly varying in size, but certainly from the same creature. "As the cases related to the war rose, more of the feathers began appearing at murder scenes, either when we got there or when we checked the next day. They've helped solve some difficult cases that we would possibly have never solved if not for their existence. As you can imagine, Donovan, Anderson and a lot of other officers believed them to be the mark of an assassin or some serial killer."

"Why so many for each case?"

"Because they usually form some sort of trail. A trail leading us to a piece of evidence that helps us locate the killer, or sometimes it even forms a trail leading us straight to the killer! We dare not make any case public which contains these Black Markers."

"And these 'Black Markers' are simply these feathers?"

"They've turned into a good omen for murder cases. Always get us to the killer."

"Sounds like something Sherlock would do…" mumbled John, staring at the sleek feather in his palm.

"My thoughts exactly…"


	4. Black Tempest

**Chapter 4**

In the months leading to the second anniversary in October, John and Lestrade kept in regular contact. The DI would turn up at 221B late in the evening or sit next to John in the graveyard, having to endure the silence until the soldier stopped looking at the gravestone. They had quick chats, usually turning to Lestrade listing new or on-going investigations linked to the war. On some occasions Lestrade would leave John with one or more of the feathers from a case when it had been solved.

The army doctor secretly treasured them, storing them in a once unused wooden box on his dresser. John would spend evenings examining the feathers when he had nothing else to do. He counted them every day, sometimes wishing that they meant something, like every feather he was gifted was a step closer towards something, someone, somewhere. It was because just being in the same room as a single feather changed the air, something unnatural, surreal, mysterious, but also filling the air with death.

John slammed the box shut as he heard the first ring of the bell and Mrs Hudson answering the door. Everyone greeted each other upstairs, the fire on, the kettle boiled and the wine glasses out for those who were happy to have a drink already. The second anniversary was upon them.

* * *

"I've seen you and Lestrade have been keeping in touch?" It had been nearly an hour since everyone had arrived, once again sat round the kitchen table. John looked up from the sip of tea he was having and Lestrade stared in bewilderment, placing his wine glass on the table so he didn't drop it.

"How the bloody he-" Lestrade began but John cut him off.

"You've kept the surveillance on me?" asked John, making no effort to argue against Mycroft. He simply smiled and straightened himself up a little more.

"I thought it best to keep a close eye on my little brother's companion, considering the past events." He occupied himself by drinking some more tea as the others looked around at each other, Lestrade trying to hide his face. "I didn't want to leave you for a year and find you this evening in a mess of media and depression. It's not good for a retired army doctor."

"No. No, you wouldn't be keeping surveillance on me unless you had a better reason than that," John said bluntly. Molly and Mrs Hudson stayed very quiet, watching on the side-lines with Lestrade caught between the two, but ready to join whichever side necessary.

"Is caring not a good enough reason?"

"Not in your family…" Lestrade muttered, finishing his glass. John continued to hold his stare into Mycroft's dull eyes, trying to make sense of the man.

"If you can't come up with a good enough excuse, then just lie to me and say it's for selling Sherlock's life to Moriarty," John snapped, downing his tea and storming off to get his coat.

* * *

Lestrade had to run to catch up with John, Molly staying by Mrs Hudson side as she waited for Mycroft, who had frozen up after John's outburst. To avoid himself from fuming when he got the cemetery, he tried to think about anything else. He looked back at saw Mrs Hudson walking with Mycroft, talking to him about Sherlock and how it was nice he was watching over John since the 'incident'. He immediately noticed Lestrade walking alongside him, but it was Molly who caught his eye. She had been keeping herself distant since the suicide, but it was at least three months afterwards that she really changed. Whether it was because a man she fancied had died, or because of something else, but she changed, the look in her eyes was more distant, she kept to herself, going silent whenever the topic changed to something that was related to Sherlock or Moriarty.

Cawing broke his train of thought, two black birds flying away onto a nearby roof after John nearly trod on them. He didn't look up to see what species they were, but the feathers floating nearby from the flapping creatures caught his gaze for a second. So similar to the Black Markers he'd been collecting, yet nowhere near the size, length or pitch black they were.

Within in a few steps they were at the gates of the cemetery. His pace slowed and he stopped just a few metres from the gate entrance, the others stopping just behind him, looking at the unnatural sight. With winter coming forward the leaves of the trees were gone, and had been replaced by the black bodies of the large feathered creatures. None cawed, none squawked, not a single sound from any of them. Their beaks were shut tight and their eyes fixed on them.

"Ravens."

John barely uttered the word as he carefully went forward, passing under the metal arch, the ravens following him as he walked through into the main grounds of the cemetery. The ravens turned their gaze to the others as they went after John, and completely turning around to watch them move along. All heads turned to follow them. The black beady eyes never stopped looking.

"What in God's name is this?" asked Mycroft quietly, the shared fear that a loud noise would spook the ravens to do something dangerous. Even attack them. They all looked around in terror and unsure what to make of the sight. John tried to keep his gaze focused on the path towards the gravestone, the similar black to the shadowy creatures surrounding him. This couldn't be normal, not in this place and not on this day.

They reached the dark stone slab more quickly than previous visits. The grassy open was left clear by the feathery fliers, except for three. Three very distinct and unique ravens, all atop the gravestone of John's friend. He kept a small distance between him and the gravestone, the others slightly further, the uneasy atmosphere of the location causing a fear to rise up. Fear of nothing.

Ignoring the three pairs of eyes staring directly at him, John looked down at the engraved letters of Sherlock's name, wondering whether this was all coincidental, the ravens, the Black Markers, the graffiti. What was it all?

He spent time standing there, going over the memories like he always did, and counting the days he'd been away from him. Two years.

After much silence he looked up at the three ravens. He studied them; an elegant one to the right, a small yet agile looking one to the left and finally the largest in the middle, with ruffled feathers and what John was sure to be two small scars over its left eye. However, his time to observe the birds was cut short. The largest raven let out a single, booming caw, echoing through the seemingly lonely cemetery and in a mass storm; the sound of flapping wings filled their ears. Ravens flew in all directions around them, everyone single one of them ducking on instinct, fear of being mauled by tiny talons and thick beaks.

In the chaos, John stopped looking round for a route out of the mess. In fact, he stood, looking in one specific direction that sent chills down his spine. He was stood before the gravestone and behind it was almost complete black from the feathery bodies flying there and back. The three ravens sat on the stone, looking up at him, but he didn't look back. Instead he looked ahead, if not a little up. In amongst the black, he was sure; in just a two second gap between the bodies he saw it. The unique, un-comparable pair of blue eyes he had been going through treacherous nightmares to remember.

These eyes blinked and opened back up pure black, blending back in with the storm. As John aimed to reach out into the chaotic flock, the three ravens flew up into the air, cutting John's reach and going up into the sky.

Every raven dispersed in the next few seconds.

Not a single bird was left, as far as John could tell anyway. He looked around everywhere, checking to see if there was a shadow, a figure, the pair of eyes he was positive he saw. Lestrade was helping Molly and Mrs Hudson to their feet, while Mycroft appeared to stay calm in the black storm. John turned back to the gravestone, unsure what to think, looking forward at where he saw the eyes. He was so sure it was untrue, and he knew if he mentioned a single thing to the others they would finally believe him in going mad. He ignored Mycroft's suggestion to leave as the DI, and two shaking woman walked away, wanting to find the answer if it meant searching the whole of London.

Then he looked back down at the gravestone.

Long, black, sleek, shiny and not there before, an object he could now recognise from afar, even in the dead of night, the feathers currently haunting his dreams, alongside the moving shadows and the Fall. A Black Marker.

"We're leaving, John," he heard Mycroft mutter, but he muttered calmly, simply sharing his fearful wish to leave the uncomfortable cemetery. John coughed to regain his thoughts, moving forward and pocketing the feather without Mycroft seeing when he walked past.

"Yes, I think we can call it a day," he said, straightening himself and following suit. He hid his fear within, the theories and impossibilities streaming through his mind. John was sure they were the eyes of a man he'd spent years with, _his _eyes. But to turn pure black in a blink and then whatever figure they were attached to disappear in mere seconds with the cover of a raven flock?

_Once you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

It would take the mind of his dead friend to answer such a question.

* * *

_Among the clouds, standing at a rooftop, far from their gaze but able to see them where he stood. The wind whipped about and the clouds darkened with each passing moment. Three small companions joined his side._

"_I did request you do as little to scare them as possible." The companion perched on his shoulder lowered its head. "But nonetheless, you gave me an opportunity; one I've been desperate to gain to which you have my thanks." A few quiet responses from the small companions and a forced smile on his lips, before he turned towards the wreckage nearby of wood and glass. _

"_Let us return to shelter…" Yet he wished for the day he would say one word. And that word, the word he missed so much, was growing closer. Home…_


	5. Mist

**Chapter 5**

Despite the fear the storm of ravens struck within John and the others, he went back alone to the gravestone the next day while the sun was just beginning to rise, meaning he could avoid the noisy traffic of rush hour and walk the streets alone. He wanted to mentally relive the event and see the flash of blue pale eyes he was certain he saw. There were a few ravens, crows and other black-feathered birds he spotted amongst the spindly branches of the cemetery trees, about eleven in total as he walked towards the dark slab.

A familiar sight was presented to him from last year. Flowers and several candles from believers, but there was more. There were sealed envelopes from people of varying ages judging by the handwriting and quality of stationary, most likely containing either thanks or requests to solve a case that would now go unread. Then, in the dissolving darkness, he saw the glint of metal buried underneath the items left. It was two metal cylinders, vibrant yellow packaging and a dusting of daisy yellow specks at the top of the cylinders, leaking onto blades of grass below.

Spray cans.

It brought a smile to his lips and even a silent laugh. Little did any of them know the bravery he saw in them all for even looking at his grave, one of few to know about the murders occurring to silence noisy believers.

"I thought I might find you here." John looked up to see Lestrade walking over, a sealed cup of coffee in his hands.

"Then we know each other too well," joked John for what seemed the first time in a long while. Lestrade smiled back, standing next to him and looking down at the golden letters, his empty hand in his pocket.

"I'll know you too well when I figure out why you put up with Sherlock all those years," he said quietly, and despite where he was, John's smile simply grew. "Fair to say we spent equal time trying not to punch him."

"Can I admit something to you?" John asked, looking at the DI from the corner of his eye. Despite his personal promise to tell no-one of what he saw, he couldn't hold on to it, and furthermore, Greg Lestrade seemed the only trustworthy man to tell. In Sherlock's death their friendship grew and an air of trust had grown between them, alongside a similar look in both their eyes that showed their belief in Sherlock Holmes.

The belief he was true. And the belief he wasn't dead.

"Surprise me. If it's about yesterday though, pah, I have no explanation about whatever that was." He sipped his cooling coffee and subtly looked around for any large flocks roosting in a nearby tree.

"Did you see anything in the swarm?" he asked. He didn't want to say what he saw immediately, he knew it would throw Lestrade off.

"That wasn't a bird?" There was a small pause and Lestrade didn't look John in the eye. "No…" John looked over this pause despite how much it bothered him. Lestrade began picking up on his question. "Did you?" John gave a small shuffle on the spot.

"Yes… I saw something." He stood straighter and held his head high so that he didn't clam up when he would finally admit. He saw Lestrade looking round at him worried.

"What?"

"Eyes… I saw human eyes." Lestrade coughed a little and didn't look at him, not even a glance in his direction, now even looking at John's reflection in the gravestone. "They were _his_ eyes… Pale blue, serious, and looking down at me. Of course, if you don't believe me that's fine." The silence carried on too long for John to feel safe, certain Lestrade was judging what he just said and considering the army doctor was beginning to lose his mind, or had already lost it. He moved to leave, his back to the gravestone, when Lestrade finally spoke, quiet and suddenly ashamed.

"Wait." John stopped, but did not turn to look round at him. "I confess. I think I saw something. Not necessarily someone, but something hidden among the ravens, in front of you."

"So at least I'm not going mad…" John said straight away, quiet and blunt. The desperate need to lighten the mood hit him. "Or we both are." Lestrade's laughter broke it, and John felt himself smile too, turning back around to spend a few more minutes with his friend… _Friends_.

"I owe a lot to him you know. Annoying as he was among other things, he helped." Lestrade's eyes glazed over with memories, probably to do with how the consulting detective had helped the DI rise further in his career.

"I too. But the 'London battlefield' went with him, and I lost so much with it…" John said, reminiscing running through the streets to chase down serial killers and taking down a Chinese smuggling gang. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like if he came back?"

"You mean aside from the obvious hook to the face?" Lestrade joked. "I'd stand by his side more. I know you'd be with him every step he took but I'd make sure he didn't go to the dogs like last time, no matter what anyone says. I'd be content just to be there to hand him a gun if necessary, protect lives like he did. He did more than we ever thanked or credited him for. I fell into the trap of mockery and hate towards him, not stepping back and looking at what was becoming of him in those last few days, what Moriarty and the world was pushing towards him. I was blind to see that he was _always_ a good man…"

"Stand by his side till the last day. No better person to fight alongside."

"Damn right… Sadly that chance has been and gone with him…"

* * *

Sadly they had to part, the dawning hours of work calling both men. John didn't feel the same after he left the graveyard though. Not from his conversation with Lestrade, not from his growing certainty he saw _his_ eyes in the storm of birds… But the horrid feeling he was being followed. It continued on throughout the days, eyes watching him from afar during work. A brisk walk home to the safety of Baker Street didn't diminish this feeling and when he was within the safe walls of 221B, the feeling clung on. He looked out the window, down into the darkening street below. No living human was there, except a small shadow atop a railing opposite. The shadow flew and landed on the railing in front of the window. A crow, beady eyes looking round at him every few seconds, perched.

_Coincidence._

The next morning, John sat down in his armchair with yesterday's paper, the cold morning light illuminating the room. A small sound of movement. Feathered movement. He spotted larger black eyes outside, that of a young raven.

_Bloody coincidence._

He resisted the temptation of throwing his mug at the window to scare the bird away, but he could sense this bird would be persistent. It was silent anyway, just sitting at the window railing and looking round the room or street, sometimes staring at John for several minutes at a time, while he hid everything in front of him, including the raven, behind his newspaper.

"Ignore them," said an unclear tone, yet the unmistakable voice of one man. John knew what was happening from how distant the voice sounded.

"As I shall ignore you," replied John, looking over the top of his newspaper and into the eyes that was the figment of his imagination, sitting in the armchair opposite, the complete, translucent body unable to block the view of the silent observer out the window, whose eyes now remained fixed on John. The only solid colour on the hallucination was the crimson dried on the skin and hair of his face.

"Was it me you saw, or has my lack of presence somehow, yet finally, poisoned your perfectly healthy mind?" asked the unreal Sherlock. John slammed his paper down and stared at the dead white eyes. He was lucky Mrs Hudson wasn't around to hear him having a conversation with, technically, himself.

"I believe so. Now do me a favour and make your unreal-self disappear," he grumbled, preferring for the images of Sherlock to drift out of existence into mist on the spot or when he left through the door, like he would eventually return. Not disappearing after a long blink where John's brain had cut off the unknown part of his conscience causing the unhealthy hallucinations.

"Why, when I am real?" he asked causally, brandishing a violin and bow out of black mist.

"But you're not! My mind is playing cruel tricks on me when doing this. Leave now or I'll cut you out myself…"

"You could try." The smirk on his face was hidden. "Maybe your distinct lack of sleep has caused you to develop extreme micro-dreams?" John was about to take the long blink and end the conversation, but was occupied registering what had just happened. The hallucinations never questioned him this way, and nor had they ever, _ever, _deduced something about him…

"You must miss me, to wait that long to blink…" John nearly growled at Sherlock but the almost clear indication of pain in his voice drew him back. Not wanting to deal with any more unreal talk, he slammed his eyes shut.

"Well?" He opened them in shock to see the ghost still sitting. Ghost? No, they didn't exist, surely not. John asked himself questions with his astonished gaze fixed on him.

"You're in my head!" John exclaimed. The image rose from the seat, black and white mist swirling with him, parting and joining him, flicking away into nothing as Sherlock waved the bow about and played the violin, but with no sound being made from it. "Wait, what were you saying about dreams? Micro dreams? Is this one?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Whichever this may be for you, it is not what I'm here to talk about it," he answered bluntly, his back to John as he looked out into the suddenly darkened street. The army doctor stood, refusing to feel intimidated by a false image.

"So you're just here to mock me? As you've always done." He wasn't happy with what he said last, but the irritation that a simple hallucination was causing him made him blurt it out.

"I would never mock you, John Watson. I said talk, not mock," he corrected. The strange guilt and pain in his voice at the first words became abundant.

"Then what? Just tell me because you're causing me more pain being here than being dead in the ground." He cursed himself at the poor choice of words, holding back every curse towards himself. Every time he saw images of Sherlock it ate away at him, seeing what could be the living man. It made the hope he was alive grow and diminish when he left, when John went back and saw the gravestone.

"I do not have much time left, so I will say what I can." Sherlock's voice was becoming more distant. He began turning, first seeing the plastered crimson and then the dead eyes, several shades darker than before. The violin and bow had disappeared from his hands in curls of mist. The mist began swirling much more, white mist trailing around the room up to John's ankles, while the black mist curled around the back of Sherlock. In the growing mist, black mist formed similar sized shapes and darted round the room. John immediately guessed them to be black feathered birds. He kept his unease at bay, standing tall, fists clenched.

"Well, what do you have to say, after so long?"

"In death, friendship can be born. The truth is rising like the darkened dead and the dead refuses to fall back. The web I know is collapsing and soon I will no longer be a ghost to you. War is soon to consume this world, and you will be part of it, for the voices have spoken…"

"Voices? What voices!?" John exclaimed. Time was up. Sherlock continued to talk but his voice was too distant to hear. The sorrow in the dead eyes was how John knew Sherlock wished he could hear each other speak. As the noiseless speaking continued, the black mists birds began cawing in unison. It grew louder with each round and the mist began growing thick from the ground until John could barely see the black of Sherlock's hair, clothes and strange eyes. The cawing grew to a deafening level. It all ended when the glass shattered, wood turned to flying splinters and the mist of air, birds and Sherlock disappeared in the unseen explosion.

"SHERLOCK!"

* * *

There was silence, and then a single caw, awakening him abruptly from the scene of white. His eyes darted open just in time to see a black shape disappear from the window, just hearing the flapping wings.

"Are you alright, dear?" John flinched round as he turned in surprise, but letting out a sigh of relief to see Mrs Hudson at the door. "I heard a clatter." Quickly looking round he saw his mug of tea that had been resting on the side of the armchair, now spilt on the floor.

"Sorry, I'll clear that up," mumbled John, sorting himself and standing up. Mrs Hudson simply looked at him with concern.

"You really must catch up on your sleep, it's not good for you…" She left as John didn't give any sign of speaking.

When the landlady had left and John had cleared up his mess from knocking the mug in his dream, he went to his desk and opened his laptop. At first he stared at the desktop screen going over the dream he saw in his head, a dream he refused to believe. The sight of Sherlock in his mind, how real it had been mixed with the blood on his face and what he said nearly caused John to start sobbing as he trembled. He chose to stop himself, by typing up what Sherlock had said to him, the apparent 'message' he needed to pass on.

He read through the message, sure he had everything down. Then he remembered the cawing and felts his fists clench till his knuckles turned white.

This left him thinking. Ravens at the cemetery and seeing Sherlock's eyes, ravens made of mist in the dream, a raven and a crow following him home. Birds with black feathers everywhere, ravens leading the way wherever he went.

The sudden epiphany led him to researching the very bird. Scrolling through pages of information, at first stating the nature of the birds, feeding, surviving. Yet nothing on swarms flying around people or following single people home.

Then he narrowed his search; the symbolism of ravens. Many spirit sites showed up, some stating links to certain personality traits in people if a raven was their supposed spirit animal.

No, among the pages of opinions linking ravens to being omens of death and the evil in black magic, there was one thing that caught John's full attention.

It spoke that unknown to many, in the depths of history; ravens were not always symbols of negative aspects in life, despite being the preferred symbol. Ravens, in the past, were once the positive symbolism for one thing.

_Knowledge._

No other black feathered bird shared a meaning as powerful. Despite childhood memories about the 'wise old owls' or any other intelligent animal, never did John ever think ravens once, and possibly still do, stand to represent 'knowledge'.

And only one man with the almost physical relations to the bird would suit to its meaning, to possess great knowledge, and in death cause the strange acts of ravens and birds seen alongside it.

_Sherlock Holmes._


	6. Ghost Chase

**Chapter 6**

The dream had without a doubt shaken him, but John remained calm. He was catching up on his sleep all of a sudden, which would hopefully stop any more mind boggling dreams to occur, but he secretly hoped it wouldn't stop him seeing the bearable hallucinations when he was awake.

The world felt like it was spinning at a rate neither his mind nor body could keep up with. He couldn't be the only one suffering this way.

Yet a month after New Year, long after the dream had occurred, one thing stayed with him. Parts of what Sherlock had said… When he occasionally couldn't sleep at night he would look at the final section of the transcript of the scene. The strange passage that only Sherlock Holmes would say, yet he was dead. He was sure he had figured out one section, the first, simple sentence in a matter of months. Yet the rest left him uncertain, sometimes scared or enthralled, wondering if the impossible had happened or leaving him clueless in every possible way.

Yet all that was a lie, a secret he kept well hidden from the others. There was another secret, one quickly growing to be a problem, and a now shady part of his life. The dark embodiments of knowledge appeared wherever he went, following him like the plague. It still agitated him when he heard the shrieks and cries of the knowledge birds or their lesser species, but he quickly accepted the creatures as just another silent part of the scenery every day.

* * *

_Wasn't this too much? Wasn't he driving his friend to the brink? Would the lights in the air and the voices in his head eventually fade forever? Was the reflection he saw at night of a blackened soul and living ghost really him?_

_Why had this ever happened?_

_Why was he so special?_

_Why?_

* * *

Late August, the British weather bleak as ever, and leaving London in its usual grey overcast. The summer had been the warmest and the brightest after the past three years. Perhaps the world was lighting up. It was the sign John wanted. Despite the freaky dream many months ago and the stalking flyers, the weather had proven to be a little boost to possibly start looking on the positive even more.

A smile was more present on his face as Lestrade pointed very quickly that day, spending the free Saturday afternoon in the pub with the army doctor. Mrs Hudson had been congratulating John on the regain of his lost sleep, not just the final recovery from John's troublesome limp. Though he still had the nightmares on a never-ending basis, he dedicated a week's holiday from work resting. The man was a rejuvenated figure, the best he'd been since…

_In death, friendship is born…_

"I was just glad to see the kids that week. No matter how many times I buggered up," finished Lestrade, telling John about his week off during the summer, also improving in life despite his own blow from the Fall and the hellish divorce. A nice week away in the pleasant summer with his family was what the DI had needed, for he too seemed to be more positive as well, influencing each other's improvements. A roar of cheers from a group of fans broke out from the corner, holding their pint glasses high at a football game they were watching on the tiny pub television, all huddled round wearing the colours of their team.

"Reckon you'll see them again?" John asked. Lestrade shrugged with a smile.

"Dunno. Hey, have you seen your sister lately?" John lowered his head.

"I haven't really talked to her much. Communication sort of broke down after, ya know. But as far as I've heard she's doing well," he answered, having to raise his voice a little over the mob of men.

"Life's finally turning around." They shared a small toast over another loud, roaring cheer from the crowds of the pub.

* * *

A while after half of the pub had left including most of the celebrating men from the match on the T.V, John and Greg exited the pub, waiting for a taxi to drive by and watching the drunken football fans wobble away in fits of laughter. John found the almost normal scene quite pleasant; the grumpy fans of the losing side in the pub and drinking away their team's failure, the happy groups wondering the street among the simple passers-by and the darkening sky, a the glow of the city growing very far away, despite the last few hours left of the sun's light. Darkened alleys, scavenging pigeons, growling cars, it was an almost cliché scene of London.

Yet among this entire scene, stood a beady-eyed shadow, which would have blended in as John's brain had recently become programmed to do, but this shadow stared. No noise, no movement except an almost undetectable breeze ruffling its feathers. It was perched on the edge of a window railing, next to a dark alley on the street opposite. The strange air and stare of the raven would have kept his full attention, allowing him time to figure out why he recognised this particular bird, if not for the silhouette in the alley next to it. As he began to make out what the figure was wearing and what he was doing, John attempted to make a joke of it to take his mind of the bird's stare.

"Shouldn't you be arresting him?" joked John, grinning as he pointed towards the alley, the artist idly defiling the public wall with bright yellow paint, the idle hand tucked in the pocket of their black jacket pocket. The artist was hooded, face completely hidden, clothes dark and hard to see in the shade of the alley, the only colour truly visible were the tattered, dirt covered, blue converse shoes the person wore, the stitching were holes had been fixed rather clear. John wasn't sure why, but he was glad they couldn't be seen easily.

"I would if I wasn't so solidly on his side," answered Lestrade, casually leaning against the wall, nodding at the artist's work. John tilted his head to see round the alley better. A member of their side, they were a believer spraying a copy of the original message drawn three times in London, two years back. "Brave lad, especially being out at this time of day."

"I forgot to ask, been any particular cases recently to do with believers?" asked John a little more quietly. Lestrade shook his head.

"A few assaults but nothing major. It's like believers know they should be quiet, so that nothing bad happens," Lestrade explained. The topic died, and observing the obvious law-breaker, Lestrade spoke up. "Did I ever tell you about this one guy I arrested during a case with Sherlock because he threatened to graffiti Buckingham Palace?"

"What!?" John exclaimed with a laugh and Lestrade recounted the humorous tale. During this, however, trouble emerged. The shadowed artist had nearly finished his handiwork. The new drunken fans of the losing team stumbled out, cursing loudly and crossing the street. They were a mixture of young and middle-aged men, tall, strong, the kind of guys to start a bar brawl. Not friendly after a few pints. They were pissed, in both ways. They each had a secret history of convicted assaults they somehow escaped. Tonight was a night to vent their anger through someone's pain. The poorly placed artist was their target.

"Oi, asshole! Why not stuff that spray can up your ass!?" one joked, staying in the light of the street. "Or do you want me to come over and do it for you?" His threats were loud and the street could hear his slurred speech clearly. John and Lestrade's attention was quickly drawn to the scene, able to see both sides from where they were standing.

The artist, suddenly cautious, put the can in his pocket and made to walk away, picking up his scruffy, black backpack from behind a bin bag in the process. One of the drunken bastards looked at the artist's work; his muscles tensed, fists became clenched and a hate burned in his eyes.

"He's a believer of that fake dickhead!"

"He is!?"

"Fuck him up!"

"Self-centred fucker!"

The thugs shouted in rage, pointed and charged. The artist turned, before trying to make a run for it. He was too late. They grabbed his jacket and pulled him to the floor. Fists flew and specks of dark red began showing against the black clothing. John was running and halfway there before Lestrade.

"Oi! Leave him alone!" John pulled two of the thugs away, who stumbled and swayed from their intoxication. Lestrade pulled a third one away who had just let out a powerful punch on the graffiti artist's abdomen and began threatening the men with immediate arrest. John grabbed the fourth, toughest thug by the collar, spun him round and punched him square in the face. He stood taller than John and quickly retaliated, striking back and busting the army doctor's bottom lip. He swung his fist round with his entire body and sent him to the ground with the certainty the thug would have a black eye by the next hour. The other free had sprinted away in a drunken flurry. John and Lestrade pushed the fourth assailant into the street and cursed at him, sending him well on his way.

By this time, the hooded target had lifted himself from the ground, bending over to regain the breath beaten out of him, his backpack flung just a few metres up the alley, but for now he was spitting blood until he could escape to whichever place he stayed. Judging by his state John had an idea he didn't sleep under a proper roof. He went over, patting the target's shoulder. Tall, lean, but seemed fragile, starved.

"You alright?" His hand was brushed away by a thin, cold, fingerless-gloved hand and the artist breathed heavily, leaning against the wall, trying to recover with what little strength he seemed to possess. John, slightly angered by the target's lack of response after he and Lestrade just saved him from a severe beating went over and spun the artist around. He immediately grabbed the arm the artist tried to use to hide his bloodied face, and John was met with the face of… not an artist.

In the two steps he took back with shock, he got a two second glimpse of the face that had been seared, scarred, sealed into his memory. Pale blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, dark hair and skin paler than anyone he knew that wasn't dead.

This man, however, was meant to be.

Gone, fleeing, grabbing the rucksack handle and flipping it over his back, the clanging of more spray cans and other items inside the bag was loud. His stunned faze ended and John, without thinking for a split second, started a pursuit.

"WAIT!" The living ghost was already halfway through the alley as John started running, kicking an empty spray can out the way as he ran and hearing Lestrade's shouts of protest, confusion and then his heavy footsteps following behind.

John stopped at the end of the alley, adjusting to the light of the street and then immediately turning left as he saw the man sprinting down the quiet street, weaving between the small number of people with ease and able to run across the road due to the lack of cars. John caught up, hearing Lestrade being not so elegant behind him judging from the infuriated calls of people as the detective inspector barged past. The extra pint was not doing any good for either of them. He caught up to the hooded ghost and sprinted down another alley, much larger, and unaware of where it was leading to. The figure turned the corner and John was sure when he reached the panel of light he'd quickly regain sight of him. He stopped at the end of the alley and was met with a horrid view.

A busy main street in London, roads swerving about with various street crossings all around, a mixture of green, red and amber lights everywhere along them, and among it all was hundreds of wondering people. Lestrade halted behind John and took an even deeper breath as he took in the view. John's eyes scanned down the street the way the target had turned, concentrating over the horns of buses, taxis and business men in their oversized cars, chattering groups of people young and old, anyone out of place. Anyone…

A large, double-decker red bus moved out the way as a light turned green, and just running from the crossing platform in the middle of that road, heading for the other side of the street, ran a figure coated in black. They knocked into someone, scrambling to their feet in a panicked flurry and glancing back to see where John and Lestrade were. That's what gave him away, and the two were in pursuit again. People shouted in protest as they cut through the crowd, elbows and shoulders moving people out the way, sometimes pushing harder than meant. Lestrade slowed down as he neared the road but John had no intention of slowing. Vehicles halted, horns blaring in anger, brakes screaming against the tarmac. Lestrade caught up after waving away the flood of rude hand gestures and appalled shouts, no time to wave his police ID about to get them to calm down slightly.

The crowd was slightly split as they ran for the alley the black ghost had exited the main street through, the civilians turning their confused heads as they rushed past. They were in another section of darkness, taking sharp turns in this darker alley, with just a few lights above abandoned back doors to light their way and not crash into a wall or trip over pile of forgotten rubbish. With the sun now descending rapidly as this pursuit went on, the empty street they came to would have been as dark as the alley they just exited, if not for the bright overhead street lamps. The hooded figure was sprinting up the street, something flowing in the air from the person as they ran, black as night and difficult for John to properly look at, so he sped on, letting the light, floating object get swayed in the wind past him. John could barely keep up and Lestrade was just able to keep John in sight, let alone the target.

Predictably, the figure took a sharp turn, this time into a wider alley. There was a clang of metal and something hitting against railings. John turned to see no fence at the end, only a closed dumpster to the left, a metal fire escape and just a short sprint to the next street. A rattling footstep, from above him. A shadow had jumped from the fence and was going in circles up the stairs. The living ghost had jumped the fire escape from the dumpster!

"Shit." John could barely mutter his curse from his rasping breaths. He grabbed the side, pulled himself round to the front of the stairs and began running up. The figure was much further ahead, and when John was halfway up his ascent, he disappeared. He finished his sprint up the stairs, and stood in the middle of the roof, looking round, unsure whether the hooded ghost was in front, behind, left or right. He could have headed in any direction. The clanging metal of Lestrade starting to climb the stairs at a slightly slower pace echoed from below.

A yell from ahead, between the hidden roofs ahead, and when John ran over he saw the figure _just_ able to pull himself up from a nasty fall into a narrow alley below. The gap was small, but misjudging a jump at sprinting speed could have easily caused him to miss, and thus left hanging from the edge. John wanted to help now, more than chase them down and find out if it was really _him._ He didn't want to see someone else fall again. And not possibly the same person.

With the man nearly on his knees at the edge of the building, John began running to jump the gap safely. The figure was stumbling, all strength lost in heaving himself up and breath knocked yet again from his chest from swinging against the wall while holding onto the edge. Just a few steps away from what John had chosen to be his launch point; he readied his balance for jumping. That's when it dived for his face.

Small, agile, loud and snapping at him, rustling wings and small talons, the tiny bird cawing at him loudly, almost screeching. He covered his face in panic, stopping on the spot, fearing his eyes might get scratched out or his skin torn by a small yet currently deadly creature. He peaked between his fingers as he ducked down to see where the hooded man was, seeing his shrinking silhouette two rooftops away. John began flailing his arms, trying to scare the bird away. The raven was at first persistent, but then it stopped flapping wildly, it stopped screeching and cawing, it stopped trying to scratch him with its talons and it flew away into the dark sky.

No time to figure out what just happened, and the gap widening between him and the hooded ghost, John did the best run up he could to the gap, barely making it with such little speed and distance behind the jump. Navigating the new territory at the best speed he could, the gap between each person involved in the pursuit stayed the same. It was turning into an almost meaningless chase, if not for John's need to have questions answered fuelling him with the energy he didn't really possess. There was a sudden close in the gap, but quickly diminished when the hooded figure jumped up a high wall and pulled their-self up more easily than before, completely cutting off John's view.

The adrenaline rushing through his body made him spring from his feet and just grab the edge of the wall, despite his usual inability to do anything of the sort. His feet scrambled against the wall, struggling to figure out how to help him up. He flung one of his arms over the tiny roof wall and gripping his hand under it, able to get a stronger grip to pull himself up with. Heaving his body up the side, he gripped the under-wall with both hands and finally pulled the top half of his body over. Wanting to keep the target within eyesight, he looked up to see which direction they had gone.

It was in that moment, and the other side of the roof.

The man jumped.

John felt his breath leave him and his heart lurch into his throat. His feet scrambled faster and when he reached his feet, he stumbled along head first with no balance. Looking over the edge, he expected to see a draining body at the bottom of a fairly deadly drop, or the figure stumbling away with a possible broken leg, even the miracle that they had somehow grabbed an open window on the drop down and climbed inside. None of these things were present, not even the slightest hint, not a small flicker of a shadow to go by.

Nothing. The man with the possible answers to John's nightmares was gone.

Disappeared into the pitch black of the night and not a single star visible between the swift clouds could point the way.

* * *

Lestrade was bent over panting, hands on his knees. John took quick breaths when he reached him, after climbing back over the roofs to find Lestrade at the gap the figure had misinterpreted. Yet he stayed ready, just in the hope that maybe there might be another chase if he saw the unmistakable face.

"Are… You out… Of your bloody mind?" asked Lestrade between breaths, unable to get his anger through.

"It was him, I'm sure," said John confidently with his breath regained, already making his way down the metal fire escape, footsteps quieter now that neither of them were running when Lestrade caught up.

"Who, John!?" Lestrade asked angrily, kept somewhat in the dark about why he'd just run across several streets of London.

"Sherlock! I swear it was him, you must have seen his face too, right?" They headed through the wide alley to the street.

"How can you be so sure? It was dark, it was late and we'd both had a lot to drink! Why did you bloody chase him!?"

"Don't tell me you don't think he's alive, and do not tell me you're not the only one who wants questions answered!"

"If it _was _Sherlock then why chase him, would you really chase him across London!?"

"You tell me why he ran in the first place…"

They ended their argument swiftly, Lestrade unable to come up with an answer to John's quiet response. John retraced the steps of the chase while Lestrade went off, saying he'd had enough for one day and just wanted to go home. John wished him a good night and even tried to joke about recovering from the running, to which he got a quiet laugh echoing down the empty street.

During this time, the objects that had swayed into John's track had disappeared on the empty street. His curiosity of what they were, since he was sure that they had fallen from the mystery man's bag or pockets, kept him looking for them as he retraced his steps. He could find none in the sharp and very dark alley, any on the main street had probably been kicked away. He checked the next alley and the quiet street. None.

He passed through the final alley towards the pub, able to see the bright yellow paint in the passing night. He stood and admired the simplicity, wondering why, if it was Sherlock he saw, was writing a message about himself. Did he start the messages that New Year? Was he behind the war of graffiti artists? Many more questions began forming in his head, and he didn't have the mind power like his good friend to discover the answers.

There was a sharp breeze of wind and something catching on his ankle, something light but noticeable. He looked down, and at first thought it was a piece of black plastic. Two or three of the slim object, completely identical, swayed in the wind like they were floating on the ground if it had turned to water. The sheen on the sides, the distinct shade of pure black… John bent down and picked up the one against his ankle, not needing much time to realise what was present in his hand and what he was also sure had flown past his face.

A Black Marker.


	7. Belief

**Chapter 7**

As the surprisingly hot summer went on, John was able to enjoy it when he wasn't stuck inside the stuffy walls of the clinic, since he quickly developed a 'habit' of spending hours a day in the summer sun, sat at the wooden bench staring endlessly at the black slab of rock. Questions flying through his head, wishing someone would answer… And sometimes someone would.

Hallucinations still phased into existence in the summer heat. The sharp return of nightmares for John after the pursuit had caused him to lose sleep again, which aided in fuelling the return of the normally silent images of his friend. When John asked himself simple questions, ones he knew the answer to somewhere in his mind, his tall friend would appear before him, sat next to him, before the gravestone and even sat atop it. Sometimes he'd be wearing his coat, sometimes just his smart suit, whatever he wore it usually fitted with the weather. Sometimes he would be playing tunes on the equally transparent violin, going over the calm birdsong in the trees. He'd give John the answer, quick and simple.

Although on some days, when John had very few questions running through his mind, he would see the same black raven from the pursuit on the gravestone; a large body, two small scars, and wise eyes. All this would be disturbed when, from what seemed far away, John would hear a familiar tune, once composed in the walls of 221B, mainly by the window. What John couldn't figure out was whether someone, somewhere was playing a tune similar to Sherlock's pieces, or insanity was quite possibly kicking in. If hallucinations could seep into his mind, why not music too?

After a while, when the questions didn't roll through his mind, or when he felt like too many beady eyes were looking at him within the cemetery, John went to try and find the source of the questions and answers himself. He'd walk the streets of London, just walking around with no purpose or significant destination to head to, looking for a sign somewhere in the city. He would look round for hooded black figures or even the graffiti of a believer. He discovered breath-taking pieces in the process, hidden in the real darkness of alleys so that they lasted longer with only the weather trying to remove the masterful paint. But nonetheless, this proved to hold no success for John. Occasionally he would spot someone similarly dressed, but a swift turn of the person showed a completely different body and soul.

In the search, few food stops were made, not because of John's lack of money, but because he couldn't bear to eat alone, it brought back more memories than he would like when unprepared. His search filled hours of the day, walking streets on the other side of London, crossing at least one of the bridges on a weekly basis and losing a lot of money on cabs. Public transport still hadn't taken his interest. With little sleep always creeping up and looming over him, everyday John grew hazy and tired in his travels. Sleep was becoming a desperate need which he couldn't achieve.

* * *

The others began to notice, the walking of London and the staring of the gravestone had alerted their attention. Luckily no-one knew the extent of the sleeping. Naturally Mycroft found out first, most likely due to John's face appearing on his security cameras on an almost daily basis. He was surprised to find Sherlock's brother sat in his armchair after he returned from a stroll round the cemetery. Mycroft immediately suggested he stop, that it was a ridiculous thought to think Sherlock was alive, let alone state to have seen him in the street and chase him through London.

"What more do I have? If you were in my shoes you'd be doing almost exactly the same thing as me, possibly more because he's your brother! Surely you of all people hope he's alive somewhere, somehow!" argued John, refusing to sit in the black armchair and standing above the other Holmes. "Too much has happened for it to be coincidence. If Sherlock's alive then everything would become a lot clearer!"

"The fact remains, John, that we both saw him be buried in the ground, the coffin lowered and buried," said Mycroft solemnly. "There's no point in planting hope for something that is impossible. He is dead and that is that. You shouldn't be drowning yourself in empty hope and impossible theories. You're better than this."

"Perhaps I don't want to," mumbled John.

"May I suggest you book some sort of session with your therapist or a new one and resolve this issue before it gets out of hand. You need to end this nonsense now before it poisons you." Mycroft's mention of the word poison reminded John about the dream and he tried not to break eye contact from the memory washing past his eyes.

"It won't help…" John wanted to argue that he doubted he would find a therapist happy to listen to his story, a therapist who was a believer. So many people act like they would hiss at the sound of his name, who's to say that even the people who are meant to listen to problems no-matter-what would somehow get the message across that they don't care. "How about you just leave?"

"I am not leaving until you tell me, here and now, that you will go and see someone. That you will no longer chase ghosts and believe the impossible." Mycroft's stare turned dark, cold and piercing. John felt like he was being stared straight through, but stood his ground, not shaking, not gulping, and not even blinking. He shook his head.

"No." His grasp on the armchair showed a sign of Mycroft's fuming anger, a simple man disobeying his orders disguised as advice.

"You will stop this!" He stood, levelling the eye contact, even changing the stakes so he was looking down at John. "He is dead and there is nothing you can do about! Now you stop this-!"

"Mycroft!" Both turned at the barking voice from the doorway. Mrs Hudson was hiding round the doorframe, but Lestrade was glaring at the older Holmes. Neither had heard the two coming up the stairs, too focused on intimidating the other. "Back down, would you?"

"You are not agreeing with John's ludicrous idea of my brother being alive, are you?" he exclaimed, glancing back at John. Lestrade stayed silent and sighed.

"No… But that doesn't give you or anyone else the right to be shouting him down like this! How you've coped with your brother dying I will never understand, I don't think any of us do, but the fact you're taking this hidden anger out on John is wrong, and it most certainly isn't in your power to tell him what to do!" There was a suddenly tense air in the room, like Lestrade was ready to attack Mycroft, and Mycroft to attack John. A tension, a fear, a mixture of views on the truth.

With a huff, Mycroft gave John a forced nod and barged past Lestrade, smiling at Mrs Hudson and quickly leaving. Mrs Hudson also disappeared down the stairs. The inspector rubbed his eyes and sighed.

"What are you doing, John?" he asked, meaning more than he meant. Why are you spending so much time by the grave, John? Why are wondering the streets, John? Why are you so sure he's alive, John? Why did you have to attract Mycroft's attention, John? Why are you bothering, John? That's what he was really asking. How could he answer all these questions in one go? "I know you're upset, and down, and tired, and all of that, but Mycroft's right. This needs to stop, or at least go down a notch. You're being over the top. The gravestone visits were fine, this wondering round London looking for the man you apparently believe to be Sherlock isn't good. I'm always on your side but just for your own health… Just stop."

He left shortly after and John sat alone, thinking alone. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he now wished he'd stayed quiet, or not been so obvious in his longer hours out in the graveyard or searching for, as Mycroft clearly put it, a ghost. Was belief really giving him this much trouble…?

Should he change his view and throw out everything he believed?

The answer was no.

Belief was the ultimate weapon.


	8. Hell's Past

**Chapter 8**

**Chapter Notes: I'm not good with giving warnings, but there is mention of suicide, so I'll just say as a warning. Anyway, enjoy the chapter.**

Refusal to leave the flat, a bitter mood about him, isolating himself from everyone. He ignored texts from Lestrade and occasionally Mycroft, and stayed silent if Mrs Hudson came upstairs. A voice inside his head, a weak one, told him he was being absurd, but the rest of his mind kept replaying the night outside the pub and freezing on, whom he was sure, was Sherlock's face. He wanted to go outside and look for him, to visit the grave and try to decide what he believed. For now, isolation and staying put seemed the only way to fight the wishes of the others, try and make a point. Maybe he misinterpreted the face and chased a random stranger through the streets. Yet he was in such denial, not wanting Sherlock to be dead, positive he's seen his face that day.

Eventually, John had no choice. Mrs Hudson purposefully didn't go do any shopping for him, not because he was on holiday from work but because although she was on John's side like Lestrade, he seemed the only current way to get him outside the flat. With literally no food left other than two packets of crisps and a quarter of a pint of milk, he had to head outside for the shops.

Heading for the nearest Tesco, he walked out into the shadows of Baker Street, the sun beginning its slow descent behind the cityscape. He ignored the noises of the cars, buses and general main street echoes. All he wanted to hear was the silence of Baker Street after he closed the front door, no taxis chugging, no clinking behind the darkened windows of Speedy's Café… He just wanted silence and as little human contact as possible. It hit him how much he might be turning into the sour side of Sherlock, was this the result of being hated, disapproved or disbelieved by others?

All this wishing for isolation and silence was granted. Almost.

John felt watched. No life was around though, not a stranger wondering the streets, not a cat running from a sound its better hearing picked up. Not even a bird stalking him in the streets. Not even a raven. He wanted isolation, but not to this degree, not to the point where it felt like a plague how wiped every other living thing in London. He wished to see a beady eye of a stalking black bird, but he only saw a dreary street and dark shadows in the alleys. Was it the shadows that made him uncomfortable? Was he developing a paranoia that made him think eyes were materializing in the shadows? Was he just scared?

With all that happened, he half expected to see a hallucination of Sherlock appear. In fact he rather hoped it.

Nothing.

Except… Did he see it? Was it fear? Or did something just move in the shadows of that alley? Just to the right, opposite 221B's door. Not possessing the courage to stay, John briskly left to buy food.

* * *

_Just one message. One can't damage._

_Just one message, which could easily be the last, before taking out the final strand of _this _delicate web, will be fine won't it? It just seems the right thing to do…_

_Especially after so long._

* * *

Just before John entered the quiet store, he finally saw one. A raven was perching on the roof above the entrance, simply looking down at him, acting like an exquisite bird as it tilted its head at him. He mimicked the bird, tilting his head to also represent his confusion in the almost alien behaviour. To his surprise, the raven did something he hadn't seen a raven do in a long time. It squawked, directly at him, before flying off with purpose, judging by its straight path.

He kept it from his mind as he restocked on basic supplies, meals to cover the next few days, drink to wash away the anger and pain, and sleeping pills, just in case the nightmares simply became too much. '_Not for darker purposes,' _thought John. '_You're better than that.'_

Ideas, quite similar to that, had crossed his mind on occasion. When he was up long nights after a horrid nightmare, unnecessarily sobbing at the ceiling, he wondered if just giving up on life would be easier, to save him the rest of life in the many years wondering what his real role in life was now that the adventures had been abruptly ended, the job he'd grown to love had died. He'd avoided all opportunities in the past three years to fill his spare time looking for a girlfriend, even a potential wife. After so many failed attempts he just gave up. The grief from the Fall didn't help. That's what filled his spare time. And no one he loved, no family or the right person was around during the time when he considered escaping it all. There was only himself.

And a very particular hallucination.

That's when it really started, when he was truly on edge. At first it was a familiar voice telling him to stay strong. It soon became clear, during ten consecutive days when the world was too much did he realise the voice was speaking his own subconscious thoughts to stay strong, but were manipulated into a voice that deep down he would always listen to.

The voice told him to stay strong, to not give in. It told him he couldn't leave, or he would be abandoning everyone, leaving them with more pain. _He _told John to wake up every morning to carry life on. Just when he thought he might recover, he fell back into the dark hole he crawled out of.

He was up, not sleeping, just sitting at the edge of his bed. It wasn't any particular day or night. It would have been a perfectly fine image, if not for the bottle in his hands. Sleeping pills.

A lot of them.

Sherlock's image appeared for the first time, in the translucent state with no mysterious mist, and the crimson faded. There were silent eyes, a reassuring yet non-existent hand on John's shoulder and eventually the whisper of one word.

_No._

Instead of ending everything, he threw the bottle away and begged to what he knew was an illusion, to Sherlock, to come back. Everyone else would have just seen a man pleading to nothing.

After that night he pulled himself together, the occasional hallucination helping. He didn't know why it worked, but it was his minds last card to play, or insanity and worse might have ensued. Nonetheless, John made a recovery through the array of events in the three years, up to the night outside the pub with Lestrade, when the world seemed brighter. Things suddenly went backwards, but down a different path.

John had been staying around the hole he'd descended in during the beginning of the recovery, away from the edge and moving a step or two away each day. The chase and everyone's words about stopping believing had knocked him not only towards the hole, but the delicate ground around it. The ground felt like it could crumble any minute, but what was worse is that John was balancing over the edge, staring into the dark abyss below.

* * *

Finishing his walk through the memories of the hell he'd been through in the many months between now and the Fall, he also finished his search around the shop as well. He decided to avoid self-service and the high possibility of battering the chip-n-pin machine, he went to a quiet cashier and left swiftly afterwards.

Empty streets, the occasional car, a scurrying cat.

No blackbirds.

No crows.

_No ravens._

His sudden need to see the bird took him by surprise. Originally a burden on his life with their silent eyes and dark bodies, but now they were such a part of his everyday view that it felt terribly wrong not seeing them.

'_Just get home,' _he thought. '_Get home, calm down and get some sleep.' _He followed his own advice, and promptly. Baker Street came into view, but the feeling of being watched had disappeared. John decided not to dwell on it, but as he headed for the door, he heard a small clinking sound. Not metal against metal, but talon against metal. Relief washed through when he looked up to see a raven perched on the railing outside the flat windows.

John knew Mrs Hudson was out when he found the front door completely locked and had to fumble for his keys. It was quieter in the flat than the street, the echoing sounds of afar not piercing the walls. It was something else that stopped John in his tracks. An air to the flat he didn't recognise, couldn't shake it or figure it out.

He shook his head to lose the train of thought and made his way upstairs. It got worse with every step. He didn't look out the window to check for the raven, he didn't look at the corners of the flat; he just headed straight for the kitchen and placed the bags on the table. Everything was unpacked, John not turning a blind eye towards the rest of the flat. He grabbed a mug and filled it with cold water to clear his head as he moved towards his armchair. There was a sigh. The problem was it wasn't from John. A caw from outside and the mug smashing against the floor as John lost his grip. It wasn't from the solid, unmistakeable sight before him, no translucent skin, or mist. No, it was what was said next that immediately alarmed John that it was unbelievably real, not a trick of his tired and paranoid mind. The words weren't distant, or clouded. They were said there and now, strong, direct and so bluntly said it almost felt like John was being stabbed straight in the chest, yet he never figured out why. _He_ was unbelievably real.

"Did you miss me?"


	9. The Return

**Chapter 9**

"Y-You… You're alive?" was all John could splutter, unable to think straight as he slowly walked towards the figure standing by the right window, looking past the raven that cawed outside.

"You're absurd to have thought me dead at all, John," Sherlock murmured. Hearing his voice again was so different, and real compared to the distant voice his mind had been creating. He was a few steps away now, arm's length even. Even at this distance, his eyes weren't registering Sherlock's appearance. They were too busy colliding with the emotions whirling around inside him and forcing him to look around as his next move was decided. "I can understand if this may come as a shock to you, since you didn't seem to work out my survival but-"

Cut off with a fist slamming into the side of his face, sending him to the ground, John not expecting such force. His body thumped against the ground, and then a loud groan towards the floor as Sherlock tried to get back, even sit himself up.

Too slow for the oncoming anger.

John grabbed the collar of Sherlock's jacket and pulled him upwards, just enough so that the man was on his knees.

"This is from me," he grumbled, sending another punch down, one hand on the collar at all times to stop Sherlock falling back. There was a grunt from the old friend. "This is for Lestrade." Another hit, only his slammed his fist round the other side of Sherlock's face. "This is for Molly and Mrs Hudson." Another punch, causing his fists to grow weaker from the impact. "This is for your godforsaken brother." Another slam, blood from both men on John's knuckles. "And this is for all the people who died in your name!" The words came out loud and furious as he let go of Sherlock's collar so that the final punch in John's raging fit sent him to the ground. His face remained hidden under the shadow of the flat, only parts of his body lit from the golden streaks of the streetlight pouring through the windows like thin sheets of gold. John stood there, his mind still fuzzy and hazy with anger, unsure what to do about his friend now…

_Friend._

Yet the rage blocked out the word and just as Sherlock looked up to him, he aimed another sore punch with his bloodied knuckles. But something snapped within Sherlock.

His fist met a palm that he barely pushed back, his weak fist leaning against it the more Sherlock stood, regaining his height by standing on his own two feet. John tried to hit him with his other fist, but it also met a palm, barely any force in his fist, resulting in a frustrated knocking of his fist against the palm again like a child in a tired tantrum. John was now the one barely standing, rage depleting, his weight being lent against Sherlock through his hands. Was this right? The world began crumbling, not at John's draining strength, but what he saw when Sherlock's face was level with his and the light from both the kitchen and the street hit him.

_Friends._

Why did he react like he did? Why!? John's brain finally began registering his surroundings and with this, revealing Sherlock's appearance… And condition.

The same tattered clothes from the night of the chase, but on closer inspection, John didn't need a powerful mind like Sherlock's to make these deductions. The dark clothes cloths were just holding together, months of rough living, travelling, climbing and no doubt running. Mismatched patches of darker colours, mainly dark greys and green were stitched on the clothes were they must have be torn. The black combat trousers looked weather-worn and had mud caking the ends, the crust turning to dust when hit against something. The same dark blue shoes on his feet, the soles worn down, possible holes which would let water pour through. John couldn't figure out why, but the black hooded jacket, with its dark zip, small pockets and own montage of stitched patches, didn't look right. He wanted to say it was made of cotton, the material thin and not good for trying to keep warm in the cold streets, but everything about it was a shade darker than normal, the creases smoother and the light bending on it a different way.

Nonetheless, it still held the stains of a crimson horror, which mostly shone from Sherlock's hands. The black fingerless gloves, a mixture of cotton and stretchy material from bike rider's gloves, possibly more all stitched together, shone on different sections from the light, the red stains revealed. The varying shades of blood and the maroon dirt clinging to the underside of his fingernails simply suggested regular fights. He didn't know whether the blood splattered across almost every piece of fabric Sherlock wore was his or the attackers. A scent of blood, sweat and vile surroundings drifted from his cloths, whereas bad food and lack of hygiene reeked on his breath as he breathed quickly and quietly from the recent battering.

Then there was the state of Sherlock himself. John knew he was thin, underweight more than he'd ever known him, the clothes long and small in size, still not clinging to his body that well. The loss of colour and shape in his face was horrifying. Now there was colour, but it was like paint on a large white canvas. The paint was the blood lightly streaming from Sherlock's nose, the blood that had already clotted on his pale bottom lip and the signs of a faint black-eye rising on his left eye.

"Sherlock… I'm… I am so sorry…" he muttered, but Sherlock shook his head as both of them lowered their hands. He thought he may have saw Sherlock smile but the shadows, mess of hair and thin stubble hid his expression well.

"Consider it as punishment for what's happened." John wanted to smile, but he couldn't shake the wish of wanting to go back and change the past, to stop himself from hitting his friend. In the loss of time, when he looked up to apologise, no-one was there. There was a moment of panic that maybe he'd had an extremely severe hallucination, but he caught sight of the black one-strap backpack on the sofa. He felt an undying urge to peer at its contents, to see what Sherlock had kept by his side to survive, but he was disturbed by the tapping of a teaspoon. John looked round to see Sherlock walking past with a steaming mug, tea or coffee within it. A similarly hot mug was on the coffee table closest to John's armchair, to which he went over to pick up after sitting down. Taking the weight of his legs helped with everything around him, the air suddenly thick to breath, emotion, truth, just enough to bare. His friend made for the black armchair that would always be his, but halted and instead proceeded to stand by the window, the idea of enjoying a comfort of 221B not appealing to him. Sherlock observed the street below from the left window, hidden in the shadows just by the glass, like he was waiting for something. John simply observed his best friend, still adjusting to the reality of it all, and being reminded of the extreme hallucination dream about death, friendship and voices from where Sherlock was standing.

"So is this it? You're back?" John finally asked after a few sips of tea, surprised that it was exactly how he took it, surprised Sherlock had remembered something so small, even pointless. As far as he could tell, Sherlock was near the end of drinking his hot beverage. John could only assume that it was his first hot drink in ages, with little change in his pocket or bag and not a common thing to find lying in the street.

"Not exactly. I'm afraid I have one more task to complete," Sherlock answered bluntly. John didn't say anything, because that's when he saw it. He didn't tremble, or grip his mug tightly, Sherlock just stood still, breathing quietly and hiding in the shadows. He would have suspected Sherlock was in a thinking faze. If not for a faraway fear in his eyes, a fear not like one at Dewer's Hollow, or when he was about to take his Fall. This was Sherlock Holmes in a state of unspoken apprehension, but with enough sense within him to take a calm approach to it, to stay calm.

"What do you have to do?" he asked. Sherlock, now almost enveloped in darkness, sighed. The sigh sent the few wisps of steam of his drink, visible in the golden light of the window, off course in a pretty spiral.

"I can't tell you." There was a pause. "It's my last task before my work's done, before it's both safe for me to return, and necessary. I'll be back in a day or two, but I promise I'll come back…"

"I hear an 'if' coming."

"If I make it out alive." The doctor gulped at the sentence. It should have seemed predictable, Sherlock putting his life endanger, diving headfirst into a place as dangerous as an inferno. This was so different, because Sherlock never told John, never gave messages like this. Few things made sense and he wanted to just freeze time and think.

"What was it like?" Sherlock looked round in confusion, half his face lit by the streetlight. John found it unnerving. "Living out in the streets of London, was it hard?" He knew it was a stupid question the moment he spoke it, but how else could he say it. A hundred other ways flickered through his brain, but it was too late to say something else. Sherlock glanced to his left, John not sure whether it was the backpack, the raven outside, or both.

"As you can see, I got by. I thought I knew London well and how to get through life, but it's a different world from this perspective. London's a much more open place, and a more violent one… Though that came as less of a surprise." John couldn't help but laugh; it seemed Sherlock took the battlefield with him, no matter how he was living. "There were the sentimental people happy to give change to strangers. There were the people who didn't agree with my appearance, or activities as you saw a few weeks ago and-"

"It was you who started the graffiti!?" John exclaimed with a joking tone in his voice, not at all wanting to sound angry. Sherlock grinned.

"I had my reasons. I had to advertise my still existing services somehow." The atmosphere became a little more light-hearted, with small smiles on both the present men's faces.

"And you were very subtle about it," John muttered in return, looking down at the empty mug. He could ask more, but the questions seemed too much for now, too serious, or harsh. How did you survive the Fall? Why didn't you come back? How did you disappear on the night of the chase? What have you been doing all these years? Why did you stay away? Why? Sensing John's questioning thoughts from the drop in the smile, his did too and a silence descended.

Sherlock made to leave, placing his mug on the corner of the desk, picking up his backpack and heading for door as John watched from his seat. Sherlock was in the doorframe when John finally answered the first question.

"I did miss you." He could almost see Sherlock smiling if he didn't leave so quickly. John went to the window and watched Sherlock cross the street, leaving through an alley, almost melting into the shadows. Reality finally gave a powerful kick and John had to sit down again, the grip on his mug making his hands go numb and the rush in his mind making his head spin.

Sherlock was alive!


	10. I O U

**Chapter 10**

A whole new world opened up before John, with many memories of the old world before the Fall rushing back. He was sure that seeing Sherlock would answer all the questions; the dreams, the ravens, the Markers and the war. It hadn't, it had just left John with the truth that the genius was still alive. Happiness resided within John, it was deep within him, but it drowned under the flood of confusion, the layer of doubt and a sprinkle of hatred. How long would it take to retrieve that happiness? Would it be worth it until he's sure Sherlock's back?

'_Sherlock might not come back!' _The panicked thought rushed through his brain, but he calmed himself with deep breaths. He focused on something else that didn't immediately make him turn back to the possibility of Sherlock never returning.

Why did Sherlock come here before going about his 'final task'? Perhaps it was a warning, or a tip-off so John could tell the others. He knew Sherlock would be the kind to tell everyone in some dramatic or silent way of his existence. Text maybe? '_Sherlock may not have a phone,'_ John answered himself. If he'd told the others, there would be no point texting them. They would find out.

"John!" A crack appeared with a crunch in the mug when realisation flew over him, blocking out Mrs Hudson walking up the stairs, congratulating him on doing his own shopping and asking him why he was sitting in the dark.

Sherlock would have waited to tell Mrs Hudson, she was like family to him no matter how much he denied it. Since he hadn't, it meant one thing.

He was giving John a final note. That's why he was scared. The chances of survival must have been slim for the task he was about to attempt.

'_Wait…'_ A tiny voice suggested. '_Maybe there's another meaning.'_ A note didn't seem right, the fear not suited. John was blind to not see it, deaf to not hear what Sherlock was really indicating in his message. It wasn't a note after all. He said it himself that returning would be _necessary_. The necessary part seemed to fall straight into the category of protecting John and many others. That's what the message was, always had been.

It was a warning.

* * *

He didn't know when he dozed off into a dreamless sleep that evening. All he remembered was storming off to his room, locking the door and blocking out the world the best he could with question after question spinning through his mind.

Sleep had ensued and now morning called. Luckily there was no work to go to.

_Work._

The word was already becoming alien to him, at least the regular work that normal day. He stared at the ceiling for a while, his mind much calmer, and no questions drawing his attention away from a fly buzzing near the ceiling light. He had a slow start, spending nearly an hour in the bathroom, repeatedly splashing his face with ice cold water and staring into the mirror. A small breakfast, hot tea and the news on low volume as it repeated on the T.V. There wasn't much else John felt he could do other than wait.

Another waiting game. The past three years had been a waiting game. This felt worse, because John now knew Sherlock was alive, that he was putting himself in danger and that he might not make it back. It felt it would be so much easier just going about life year by year, waiting for the next anniversary of his death, working the long shifts each week, month, year…

John's thoughts changed direction. It was supposed to be the anniversary soon. How was he going to explain, or even convince the others he was alive? Did they even know? John hadn't checked, and grabbed his phone on the course of wondering. No voicemails, no missed phone calls… Just one unread text.

**Sorry.**

**-SH**

And above were a mound of texts in the same thread that had all finally sent. Texts from when John was half asleep during the day or unable to sleep at night. Some were just questions if Sherlock was alive, others were pleads to come home, the occasional text linked to everyday life when John texted between patients while half asleep, asking Sherlock to pick up shopping and other ordinary texts. Many were from the first year of suffering, fewer as the months progressed. All these texts had been sent at around 8am that morning, while John had had the fortunate success to sleep till 9am. He didn't have much care for what the next mobile phone bill would say. Sherlock was still alive for now. But why had it taken him this long to finally answer?

A thought brought him to the door of his friend's room, and he didn't think twice as he gently pushed the door open. Had he retrieved the phone from his room while John was out? Walking in to find the pristine room, with clean sheets pulled back and no dust collected on the surface from a clean a few days ago, John wasn't so sure. Mrs Hudson, usually while he was gone, walked up the stairs and cleaned the room regularly, wiping away the dust and cleaning every surface and space in the room. She would have found a phone and placed it on the top, or told John. All he thought now was how the landlady had found her clean way to deal with the untold pain, like she too believed he would one day walk through the door and the old life would start again.

Later that morning, John composed a plan to get everyone together. It was only three days till the anniversary anyway, but if could get the others around today, without too much suspicion, he might be able to deliver the news, convince particular people. They needed to know.

* * *

"What are we doing here, John?"

"Because… because…" he couldn't string the words together. They were all there, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Molly and even Lestrade, who was currently ignoring a call to an assault and murder scene. They were standing by him at the cemetery gates in the light rain with grey clouds concealing away any blue sky, the gathering spot for what John had originally described as an 'early anniversary'. A lie quickly appeared to answer Mycroft's question. "I'm working a longer shift on Friday, and I have a meeting that evening as well. Can't miss it…"

"This isn't exactly an appropriate time," muttered Mycroft and John ignored, even sensing Lestrade shooting him a glare. Mycroft had more power than any of them combined to leave his work and go somewhere else, even here. He could move meetings and talks around with the click of his fingers; he had nothing at stake, whereas Lestrade, and possibly Molly, were putting their jobs at stake.

"There aren't any, well, ravens around, are there?" asked Molly quietly, sticking to the back of the group. John scanned the trees, but as far as he could see there was only a pair of doves and three crows. No ravens.

"It's perfectly safe, Molly," he assured and made his way along the path. He stayed ahead of the others, stuck in his thoughts, trying to decide how he was going to tell, explain and convince the others Sherlock was alive. Four people convinced he was dead. Where did he start? He couldn't seem to even mutter the truth, for the thought alone was just too great. John hoped that standing before a now false gravestone might help him make the smallest, clearest indication that he knew a different truth to the others. Would it?

John spun round just before he looked towards the gravestone, a small cry from Molly alarming everyone. He quickly spotted the gliding raven heading for another spindly tree after cutting through the group, John catching a glimpse of its almost warning eyes. Obviously Molly hadn't recovered from the storm last year. He nearly smirked at her reaction, instead becoming fearful at Lestrade's expression, staring towards the gravestone. John expected more ravens, possibly people gathered, maybe even Sherlock as suggested by a tiny voice in his head, anything to account for Lestrade's horrified expression. John's predictions weren't even close.

Cracked, split down the middle, crumbled from a heavy blow, exactly in the centre of the very top of the slab. The wise raven with the two small scars over its left eye was poking at the small pieces of rubble scattered around. Its eyes locked onto them, but eventually chose to ignore them as John led the group over. Panic, fear, disgust? Which emotion was most appropriate for this situation? Someone had just obliterated Sherlock's gravestone? Standing in front of it, with no body beneath his feet, he saw that only the bottom quarter of the slab was left standing. The rest was spread around the gravestone and themselves in a wide radius. The golden letters were visible on some chunks of rock, other small pieces completely gold, the rest the reflective black. Worse to see was the pile of disintegrating flowers and curling letters in front of the gravestone. Every week there was a new bunch of flowers and occasionally a letter or two which disappeared later. John was now sure Sherlock had been taking them, a case sealed in one of the possible envelopes. The flames still flickered between the gifts and job requests that hadn't been collected in time.

"Who the hell would do this?" asked Lestrade, doing well to get over the shock. "It isn't to do with the alley war, is it?"

"It would seem possible," answered Mycroft. John once again ignored him, not because he wasn't surprised Mycroft knew since he had eyes and ears everywhere, but because it seemed so absurd, especially since the war had grown a little quieter over the past few months. "An extremist on the opposing side?"

"No." They turned at John's blunt response. "Something much bigger would have to be going on to lead to this." He didn't say, but he wondered if it was the work of Sherlock himself. The man loved an entrance, but he would have followed a theme, spray painting the gravestone would have been enough surely? John was kicked into remembering just how much he needed to tell the others. "There's a reason behind today, and it's not the anniversary. I need to you all-"

"Can someone smell smoke?" Lestrade burst out over John's quiet speech. He held his breath in frustration at the interruption, but nonetheless looked around for a source of smoke and inhaled with air. The scent of burning wood hit his nostrils when he saw a thinning pillar of dark grey smoke climbing from behind the church.

"Should we check it out?" asked Lestrade. John shrugged, hiding his clenched fists.

"May as well, someone could be hurt," he said and led the way through the trees, along the paths overgrown by grass, knowing them better due to his regular visits. They walked along the side of the church, unable to gaze at the dripping stain-glass windows, figures in the design looking like they were now crying from the rain. Even the damp gravestones around them went ignored. Not a single one of them even noticed the shadow running away from the smoke in the shadows of the trees as the downpour started. It was near the back of the church the found the blackened remains of the small building, an abandoned octagonal, wooden hut, hidden by overgrown plants and the shadow of a few trees surrounding it, but now a smoking wreck. The remaining windows that hadn't been smashed were now blisteringly hot or in pieces on the ground. The structure still remained, but was blackened to shades darker than the night sky. It creaked and whined in a sharp wind, sizzling from the rain now lightly pattering on it, reducing the shadows around. John was the first to walk up the three stone steps and move among the littered floor, kicking and pushing planks out the way with his feet, ash and embers flying about from the impact. Lestrade followed immediately after, Mycroft soon after once he had finished entrusting Mrs Hudson and Molly with his open umbrella. With the rain and heat dying down, a light drizzle now upon them and the heat of the recent fire extinguished, they investigated the remains.

"Someone's been living here," announced Mycroft, looking round slowly. John and Lestrade turned in confusion.

"What makes you say that?" Mycroft did not answer John's question verbally, but instead walked over the remaining wall opposite the entrance and shifted some planks with his foot. Smouldering, blackened and yellow was a thin mattress, the smell of damp conditions still wavering from it through the stench of smoke. Two blankets, one underneath and one on top, had been with the mattress, but had been reduced to small pieces of cloth with charred edges. Mycroft then walked over, tapping a wooden clothes peg on a structure beam in the corner as he passed, until he was stood next to a large box, but was sadly wooden and crumbling away with every raindrop in the drizzle. John went over to look as well but his foot hit something that was very hot even with him wearing shoes. In reaction he stepped back and heard something snap, feeling something crumble under his foot. Underneath his foot were the disintegrating remnants of a second-hand violin and in front was a creaky, rusty music sheet stand. Trapped underneath was crisping paper, turning into floating specs of white ash when he stood on them, and could make out both music notes and newspaper headlines on what remained intact from the rain and blaze.

"Dear God…" John muttered. Only he knew, compared to the others, who could possibly have been living here, in these conditions with such surroundings. Why had it been burnt down? Did Sherlock do this or was it someone else?

"You alright, John?" Lestrade began walking over to him, John staring at the ground. That's when it began becoming a little more visible, the planks shifted, the ash washing away in the rain and the lines appearing in grey.

"Wait!" John snapped, holding his hand up towards Lestrade. He froze. "Move the planks around your feet, there's something underneath." When he kicked the first few out the way, Lestrade exited his hesitant position and joined in the moving of burnt wood. Mycroft did not join, instead standing at the doorway and trying to decipher what was on the ground as the other two did the work. Within minutes, it was clear. John stood beside Mycroft and Lestrade at the entrance, looking down at the floor. Their eyes widened with each passing second as the rain washed away the final layer of ash, showing the rough scratches in the floor, sending the observing raven with the scars away, letting out aggravated hoarse cries. Three wide letters, spread out evenly, surrounded by equally recent and tiny scratches of skulls, eyes, dark symbols. A three letter message…

_**I O U**_


	11. Web Strands

**Chapter 11**

Through the agony of stepping back into those four precious walls and talking to someone he could truly call a friend, the consulting detective ventured back to his main place of dwelling. One last night in the abandoned structure, while rain softly pattered against the remaining glass standing in its weak pane and all leaks had been sealed up during a heavy rain season in the first year after the Fall. In the three years, the small space had turned into a home, a place to return to instead of braving the bitter nights in the streets when he could avoid it. The retrieval of a suitable sleeping item and storage space was predictable, the luck of finding the particular musical instrument quite another feet, giving him the perfect opportunity to revert back to some fabric of reality in the symphony of notes.

Many in his position would speak of loneliness, an inability to speak to a trustworthy soul on a regular basis. He could, it just wasn't necessarily human. His harmonious tunes in the late evening, when no human ears were around to grow suspicious, attracted the ears of other creatures. The dark birds would abruptly stop their hoarse cries, flying through the cracked windows and perching on the beams in the ceiling, crows and blackbirds left to the floor as the lesser species in the crowd. The general mass of feathers was a usually lifeless crowd for him. It was the three who stood by his side when the notes ceased to play, who provided assistance with a single command. One mothered him to distraction, staying by his side as much as possible and pointing out danger wherever he went. The second provided an endless stream of annoyance, walking itself to an early grave if not proving its worth to him with daring speed, reckless turns and a sharp eye. The final being, naturally a personal favourite, was a fountain of specific knowledge with high relation to the detective's extreme condition, all trapped within the body of an extremely disgruntled raven.

A final night with three unusual companions, a last cigarette and the frosty dawn following too quickly. Sleep had not been fully achieved, he wasn't sure if it would truly cost him. A ripped sports bag, smothered with dirt to hide the brighter colours, made do to empty most of the contents of the storage box and other certain items round the shelter that he refused to leave behind, pieces of him left before life deteriorated into the current mess. One last look into the surroundings, rucksack slung over his shoulder and the larger bag firmly in his grip, his back turned on the old dwelling and faced his next path to a final destination.

_Home._

* * *

Smoke was drifting in the air, Wisdom waiting at the midpoint between here and home and Protection was with his hidden bag of possessions. He was alone and heading towards Danger. Danger wasn't a small animal, a large animal; it was the same as everyone he passed in the street. Or Danger _looked _human. These humans were tainted with darkness, the makings of a realm many call hell.

These people were part of the web strung by _him. _The man Sherlock was trying to defeat. Sadly it wasn't the only web strung, but it needed to be extinguished first. Only then could he venture into the Spider's Nest. That was where the real beings of tainted darkness were, where Hell shone brightly in its destructive flames. The current web was based in London, and only London. It was a connection of people waiting at a simple call, text or even sign to perform tasks, some small as threats and beatings, others torture, hunting and assassination.

The web of assassins.

He walked with slightly hunched shoulders through the street, trying to appear without major purpose yet not arouse suspicion. It seemed a bit drastic, being on the other side of the city among abandoned streets and warehouses, the empty railroad nearby and a familiar darkened tramway not too far either. It could be where he could go if every other darkened corner proved to not hold what he sought. That would be his ally tonight, for despite the darkness hidden within these people, they too held refuge in light, they were men who used their eyes, and not all possessed enough darkness within them to see through it. He sometimes did when light seemed so far and an end so near. He would not need to now. A faint glow appeared in the distance, at the end of a wide alley between too ghostly warehouses, the windows shattered and cracked, brick crumbling and the metal fire escapes continuing to rust. A suitable escape route immediately, he could use the roofs to his advantage, able to disappear in the sky with a single leap ahead. He hid round the corner of the warehouse, staying in the shadows as much as possible to avoid being seen. Sherlock peeped round the corner to examine the scene.

A much wider alley than anticipated, the end blocked off by a high fence of wooden planks and mesh, barbed wire placed along the top by the alley's owners. Crates appeared to be munched at the end among a large dumpster and a large cage, a blanket over the top to hide whatever was inside. Past experience suggested a dog trained to attack. Five men in total, two as silhouettes with their backs to him, the other three with lit faces, all surrounding the barrel fire. To be sleeping this rough meant they were working, and could return to more fashionable and comfortable lifestyles in hotels with alcohol and women at their expense when the job was done. Large groups like this were rare. They all wore light yet thick clothes, the fire helping keep away the icy air and a murmur about them. A burst of laughter and one man throwing away a beer can. This was a nice sight; alcohol slowed the reaction time of any. These assassins, assaulters, whatever job they were currently on, needed to be rid of. They were the last standing, the last left, all others defeated over three long years. But those that survive the longest are either the weakest, or the best at their game.

"A delightful evening to die, don't you think?" Five faces shot round at him, but smirks were worn instead of scowling stares. Sherlock slowly strode over, cautious but confident. He couldn't look weak; it had cost him a month of agony with broken bone injuries in the past, another time near capture. He kept his hands behind his back, the two knives he owned hidden and assessed what he could in the light. But he let them speak first; conversation always took the targets by surprise, helping decipher who or _what _they were.

"That's a very peculiar thing to say about yourself," spoke the furthest away, hidden behind the flames of the barrel. He was tallest, but then that was only to Sherlock's height. They all possessed the hidden strength for hand-to-hand combat. Scarred faces, rough hands, hands automatically clenched into fists. The fire helped reveal the glint of metal on them, no guns in the group, instead large butchers' knives. The situation seemed a little more difficult now. "Let me guess, you're Sherlock Holmes?"

"It seems no-one needs a large IQ to recognise a hidden face," he remarked. The guns he hoped wouldn't be brought out must have been hidden in the boxes at the end of the alley. They were no doubt assassins, informed of him. Each had the tell-tale marks, rings around their eyes from looking through the scope at their victim, marks under the index finger from pressure on the trigger. If not for the barrel fire none of this would be seen. But then with his face hidden under the hood he could easily turn to the eyes that allowed visibility in the dark. "Out on work I see?"

"A higher voice asked for the death of a few members of Scotland Yard, but we were warned about you long ago. The dead bodies of 'colleagues' as it were. No killer. No motive. Some left unconscious long enough to be caught and arrested. Got to say, you did well to get rid of us. But then there will _always_ be _more _of us. We're everywhere, we can come from anywhere in the world. It seems a bit excessive to just target us Londoners don't you think?" the leader went on. So they knew? A clear problem, but then they made no link to _him_, the real man he wanted to find after this.

"I always have my reasons. Now how would you like to end your lives? Through me or prison? Your choice entirely." There was shrill laughter from the men. They began backing behind the barrel fire, wanting Sherlock to move into the light, which he already had every intention to do. If it worked, the fear he could pummel into them with the help of light would give him an immediate advantage. The secret always gave fear first, never wonder.

"How about how _you_ wish to die," spoke another assassin, already unsheathing his knife, the metal gleaming where it wasn't stained with red.

"I decided that long ago, but death is a strange thing, let me tell you." After speaking the truth, leaving confusion in their faces, he stepped into the real light of the fire, and that was when the fight started. A simple reveal of his now fully tainted body sent the men gasping and then roaring, the nearest two charging to kill such an unnatural being. The left charger was down with the two thrown knives embedding in his chest, the blood from his lungs and heart firing out several metres in front. The other was knocked round the head by a large black fist after Sherlock grabbed the attacker's head with both his gloved hands. He was unconscious, giving Sherlock a clean path to deal with the others. The commotion had alerted the canine in the cage, now writhing around and knocking at an unstable lock. Looking up, the other three were standing firm, the two either side of the leader holding knives, all sharing an infuriated glare. The leader simply stood. Sherlock couldn't spot a weapon on him at all, but then judging by the flecks of red on the side of his mouth, an inner warning cry alerted him that strength would be all he needed for a tough fight. The leader was Danger.

"You're gonna pay for that, you fucked up killer," spat the man on the right, a scar across his left temple, a key aiming point for attack. Sherlock stood again, walking over to retrieve his knives from the slowly dying man.

"Says you," he joked. The man on the left charged round the barrel as Sherlock knelt down to retrieve the throwing knives. He snapped out a leg and spun it round to trip him up, winding the man as he landed on his back, a cry escaping him from the thud. He kept both knives close as the other man ran round, the leader casually walking over. Two against one was always more fun; a third approaching would normally mean an absolute thrill of a fight, if not for who… What the leader was.

The black extension swiped behind him to knock the scarred man in the chest, so Sherlock could stand and kick him in the kneecaps before punching the scar. A groan of pain. The winded man was on his feet and a knife slashed Sherlock's arm, the blood warm on his skin. The hiss was replaced with a sharp biting of his lip, swinging his entire body round and grabbing the man's throat. Immediate choking, random swinging of the knife which caught Sherlock's collarbone and then he threw him at the wall in retaliation. Brick crumbled behind and Sherlock turned to face the scarred man and the leader. A knife was heading to his throat and the leader's face cast in a sudden shadow, his eyes an abyss with no light. Danger was getting too close.

Blocking out the crackling fire, the barking dog, the rattling cage, the choked man scrambling for the weapons box and the shouts of rage from the other man charging at him with the knife, he changed to eyes that saw in the darkness. Eyes that also showed how much a man deserved to die, especially if that man, like the leader, _wasn't_ a man. He raised his left forearm to take the knife and knocked it away into the fire. Using his left hand the man's wrist was caught, and right hand grabbed his throat. The black extension, the fist at the top leading the way, slammed down at the man at a sharp angle. It caught the front of his neck, the rest of the extension helping bash the rest of his neck round, so much that it let out a horrific crack. Neck or collarbone, it didn't matter if he lived or not. He was done.

The leader froze for a second, regarding his opponent with the death of a colleague. A rage now fuelled him and with full force fists he punched Sherlock round the face. It hurt more than he had ever imagined, more than when previous assassins had punched him, more than when John punched him. But not as bad as when _he_ punched him. Inhuman strength. The punch cut open his cheek. Panic shot through him, but he buried it and fought back, lunging at the leader with fists from all directions. The leader was hit square in the chest by two fists and two more sources of force, sending him flying back, tumbling over the cage and smashing a cargo box behind, bricks on top falling on his legs. A knife suddenly rushed past Sherlock's face, another digging into his forceful extensions of the body and a final knife slashing across his chest. The knife in the extension fell out when he whipped around, staring with a sudden rage at the attacker. The man was grabbing another knife from the supply box. Sherlock knocked the barrel fire over, the white hot coal pouring out and flying towards the man. He yelped, jumped away and then threw the last knife at Sherlock as he began moving forward, hidden in almost total darkness with the fire out. A lucky aim, as the knife dug into this right thigh. He yelled with pain and pulled it out. He stepped back before charging properly, jumping on the barrel, jumping again and pouncing on the attacker, using the knife to bury it in the middle of his chest. Blood poured, but not enough to suggest a punctured heart or lung as the man screamed in torment. Sherlock saved him some pain and knocked him out with several fists to the face. He turned to see where the leader was and a brick collided with his temple.

Sheer luck stopped him from being knocked out, but the blood pouring down the side of his face, much like that at the Fall, coated the side of his face and nearly seeped into his eye, which could have left him temporarily half blind. The leader raised the brick again, intent on smashing Sherlock's skull in, but he refused to let that happen. This assassin would die like the rest. He couldn't be arrested, not when he was Danger. He pushed him back with all strength he had and tried to pull the brick from his grip. The leader snarled, baring teeth with blood staining the canines. Animal blood?

With no time to deduce it, Sherlock pulled the red slab out of his hands and threw it at the leader's head. It hit, square in the centre, leaving a gushing dent in his forehead. But he stayed on two feet. The leader chuckled darkly, looking back at Sherlock with the eyes of Danger and made to dig all fingers in his throat and pull everything out of his neck. He didn't give him a second to try and get the satisfaction, grabbing the leader's possessed head and snapping it round, the body falling flat on the ground. All was over. Until the crashing registered and the snapping hound lunged at him.

Its jaws dug into his right shoulder, trying to break through the muscle and shoulder blade to leave him dying, but it had turned into a night of breaking necks. The hound suffered the same fate, with Sherlock able to defend himself just before his main muscles were all caught and ripped out by the powerful jaws. He kicked the body off him and hid the bodily extensions, now aching from taking his whole body landing on them, his backpack having been no help with its contents to protect his spine. The silence descended over the alley of the dead and soon to be arrested, if ever discovered in such an abandoned area.

Sherlock climbed to his feet with difficulty. The wounds were beginning to hurt, the pain finally coursing through his body. But he reminded himself he had felt worse pain, the ultimate pain and it became a distant feeling. The only concern he ever felt was blood loss, and even now it didn't seem to much a problem, the wounds wouldn't kill him, wouldn't weaken him. He was able to leave it all now, go to somewhere he could tend to them in peace and comfo-

A gunshot rang through his ears, a bullet zipping past his head. It was from above, and the clear sound meant a sniper. The red laser glared into his eyes for a second from the roof. Sherlock squinted as the man moved the sniper rifle away from his face. It wasn't part of the group, it wasn't Danger… It was…

'_Get him you fool!'_ his mind screamed at him. His legs bolted for the fire escape as the assassin fled. Luck, sheer luck he would turn up. A different voice, the lifeless tone, the voices in his head told him it was meant to happen, like everything else in the universe. Nevertheless an opportunity that couldn't go amiss, for this man had more reason to die than all the assassins killed in the past three years at Sherlock's hands. He reached the top of the fire escape, daring not reveal the extensions in case of _him. _The assassin didn't run fast, he normally never had any need too. He caught up with him after jumping to the next roof, a hundred foot drop below. He through a remaining knife into the assassin's back, making him double over to his knees. Sherlock ran in front and grabbed collar, pulling him up to see the man's face, but having turned back to the normal eyes which couldn't appear into the darkness made it difficult. Memory helped reconstruct the assassin's face in the dark.

"Fancy seeing you here!" Sherlock spat, a memory flicking into his mind that nearly made him tremble with fury at the assassin. He couldn't help himself and stood back to kick the assassin in the chest before grabbing him again. "Now tell me where _he_ is!" The assassin simply sniggered and Sherlock, despite trying to get the information he desperately wanted, not needed at the time, lost his calm. He beat the assassin till he had busted both lips and left a dark enough black eye.

"I came here to kill you," the assassin spoke when Sherlock stopped for a few seconds. Without warning, and a sudden strength, the assassin struck the other side of Sherlock's head, bruising the other temple with the butt of his sniper rifle. The tables turned and Sherlock was the one being gripped by the neck, the assassin leaving the rifle on the ground. "Not give you a single scrap of info."

Then the frenzy started; a payback that went way over its limit. Larger fists crashed into Sherlock's face, till half his face was black and blue, a larger black eye created than the one John gave him and his nose broken, the metallic taste of blood immediately flooding his mouth. The assassin stopped, stepping back to admire his work and deciding it wasn't enough. Sherlock wished that the look didn't remind him of two years back, when death was imminent and the ultimate pain was given to him. A heavy boot was crushed into his chest and both sides of his abdomen kicked. The boot aimed for his face, and instinct kicked in. Sherlock rolled out of the boot's flying course, stumbled to his feet and ran. His hood was caught and pulled back, but knowing that large hands would try to strangle him to death, he reached for the glinting metal on the floor. The assassin turned to watch him take his final breath during suffocation, but the metal slashed his face and the blood poured. Sherlock couldn't see the damage, but split second freedom to run from the loosened grip meant he must have left some major damage. He'd slashed a knife across a man's face, it had to be major.

This time he would be chased. The assassin grabbed the rifle and made to aim, storing the pain away and letting revenge fuel him. Sherlock jumped the gap and felt the bullet slash across the right of his abdomen. He ran further and jumped another gap. He glanced back. Now the assassin was chasing him. Where was the nearest roof to disappear? How far!?

It seemed the assassin could run. Of course he did. Victims may have never chased after him, but the police certainly did. Sherlock didn't know this area well; he'd only come here once. Knowledge of the roofs was beyond him and guessing was something he hated. If he didn't guess then surviving was out of the question. Very nearly had the assassin been chasing after him on the same roof, until Sherlock took a dive off the edge and jumped through an already cracked window of a warehouse. Lefts and rights, sharp turns, jumping stairs, and then the floorboards cracked beneath into the ground floor below, a couple of feet below. The ground shook his spine and the dust and debris made his wounds sting with the pain of intense heat and fresh ice. The assassins search for a safe route down gave him time to scramble to his feet and lose him in a maze of alleys. Hiding in the dark crevice of a wall on the outside of a warehouse through the maze allowed the chase to break.

The assassin cursed in rage and went off. Sherlock followed and saw him reveal a hidden motorbike not far from the group's alley and drove off.

Sherlock went in the opposite direction, thankfully towards Protection. It was there to greet him with panicked cries and a flurry of suggestions. All he could think of was shelter. Smoke informed him of the burnt remains of the dwelling, Wisdom telling him of the message and other symbols scratched into the surface. With weak legs, blurring vision and only the protection of the shadows, he made for home.

* * *

The street came into view. He exited the alley and stumbled across the street, his hand pressed against the pouring wound on his chest. He crashed into the door, his legs shaking underneath. He looked to open it. Locked. No key. With the foulest of swears muttered under his breath, he dug out a small gun from the bottom of his bag and shot the lock. Smashing his shoulder against it finally opened it, closing it wearily behind him. More stumbling, sliding against the wall up the stairs, darkness throughout the building. No-one around to help. He barged through the door and slammed it shut when Wisdom and Protection flew through, Smoke guarding the street outside. He collapsed to the floor, the blood dripping onto the carpet, he lent against the black armchair, lighting the fire to fight the cold stabbing at his bones.

The wreck he was gripped the gun and stared at the door. He waited, for the assassin, for a friend. It was clear who the gun was meant for. Whispers from downstairs. He smiled to himself, imaging the faces he would see when they all climbed the stairs. But his face screwed up at another searing rush of agony flowing through.

He could barely keep his eyes open, let alone speak, when he saw his best friend open the door.


	12. Bloodstains

**Chapter 12**

Immediately after seeing the message, Lestrade called Donovan and a few more officers to seal off the gravestone and burnt structure. John wasn't surprised to see Donovan accompanied with Anderson, both of them always interested in taking part of news involving Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade argued why he wasn't at the crime scene they'd try to call him to instead of going to the cemetery and found out it was a false alarm nearby. More police officers appeared than necessary.

John stayed with a distressed Molly and Mrs Hudson, sitting at the bench with them, Mycroft staying with Lestrade to help organise shifts of officers to watch both sites, the whole commotion going on till it was nearly dark. Lestrade walked over as Mycroft spoke to some officers closely.

"Well?"

"No-one's discovered the cause of the fire, specialists will check tomorrow. As for the gravestone, it's definite that it was neither a bomb nor a tool of any kind we can think of," explained Lestrade. He stood by the doctor, observing the scene with him. The sun nearly set, the shadows creeping over and everyone always glancing back at the crushed gravestone.

"What do you think the message was?" John asked quietly. He secretly cared more about that than the cause of the fire and what broke the gravestone. He wanted to know what the message meant and who would do _any _of this. "And all those symbols around it? Some of them didn't even look real."

"We both know what IOU means, but why it's there? I can't even imagine where I'd start to look for answers. I heard an officer muttering about those markings though, something about the devil before doing the cross across his chest. I knew he was a religious fella but it certainly struck some fear into him." Lestrade nodded slyly towards a scrawny officer milling near the gravestone, staying as far from the burnt shelter as possible. He looked pale but colour was returning to his face. John could just make out the small silver cross around his neck.

"No theories on who?" Lestrade shrugged. He didn't even have the slightest answer. Instead Mycroft trudged over, keeping a serious expression and standing tall.

"Watches have been established and I've rung some particular acquaintances to possibly look into this," he informed, seeming less blunt than usual. John looked at him uncertainly and Mycroft lowered his head, a stern glint in his eyes. "Let me assure you, John that I wish to know who's defiled my brother's gravestone as much as you do." John couldn't help but smile a little in understanding.

"Can we please leave now?" Molly burst in, unaware of the conversation currently being held. Mrs Hudson stayed close, and John could see they were both tired. Yet he couldn't help but wonder if Molly was looking stressed, upset? She appeared like she was at every anniversary, quiet, ashamed, possibly guilty? Not once that afternoon did she look at the gravestone when the officers arrived, not without her hand beginning to tremble uncontrollably until she turned away.

"Of course," answered John in the over-extended silence. Lestrade asked to join, and mysteriously Mycroft too. Shock seemed the main cause, they were all in that state and it seemed right to stay together for a while longer. The detective inspector gave a few final orders, cleaning loose ends and making sure the only officers left behind were those on watch. By the time they had hailed two cabs to return in, it was well into the night.

* * *

It was a silent return trip, John with Molly and Mrs Hudson, both shocked and upset, Molly trying to hide one of her shaking hands. The two cabs pulled up to Baker Street and they all headed to the flat, but Lestrade made them stop when he spoke, having waited till they were all together and in the empty street.

"John, what were you going to tell us?" he asked. John froze and turned around; knowing eyes were already staring into the back of his skull. "You said there was a reason we walked into that cemetery which wasn't to do with the anniversary and-"

"I know what I said," John interrupted, trying to hide his fearful expression and the anger towards himself. "I know what I said and I don't know whether I can say it."

"Can't say? We're your friends, John! Of all the people in the world, you can tell us!" Lestrade argued, voice raised in the silent street.

'_I may not have to, ´_ he thought to himself, knowing Sherlock intended on returning very soon. He sighed at the stars above and wondered whether if telling the truth now was really worth it. A silhouette passed the sky and he didn't even need to guess which bird was following him.

"It's not as simple as it seemed. After what I saw today I'm a little confused." John held his breath, hoping that the truthful lie would be accepted by them. Yes, today had scared and confused him, wondering why Sherlock's image was being attacked. It was a lie that those events themselves had made it difficult to say. It was the horrible little idea nibbling at the back of his mind that the messages were linked to something horrific, mainly to say that Sherlock failed the task… That he was dead. If he was dead he had no proof that Sherlock had lived and the others may see him as completely crazy, insane.

"Just tell us the truth. We won't judge," spoke Mycroft, trying to sound caring. John held back a loud scoff, of all the people to say they won't judge? He looked at the ground for a few seconds and decided to keep it simple.

"Alright, here goes," he muttered. He looked up and cleared his throat. "Sherlock is al-" Cut off yet again, but no-one complained when they immediately realised it was Mrs Hudson who let out a fearful cry. She covered her mouth to silence herself and pointed to the door. John spun round and ran over, ignoring the small raven staring down at him from the window railing.

He first thought the door was ajar because Mrs Hudson had unlocked it. But there was no lock to break. Blown at the edge, metal bent and a bullet wedged in the wood of the door. The others rushed over, but John held up a hand to stop them and gave them a look of silence. John glanced at Lestrade, asking for help. He took over, assessing the damage and gently pushing the door open. Everyone looked in. Dark, empty, silent.

"Burglar?" whispered Lestrade. John gulped.

"Killer?" They exchanged a worried look and Lestrade withdrew a gun from his coat, leading the way inside. Mycroft ushered Molly and Mrs Hudson away from the door as the other two checked round the door of Mrs Hudson's room. The kitchen was empty, every room was. They returned into the front room, Lestrade shrugging while John looked up the stairs.

'_What if…'_ he thought. '_Could it be him?' _He looked around for any sign, even looking at the wall. Ignoring Lestrade's whispers to Mycroft, his eyes widened in horror at the stains, the streaks of red and crimson along the wall, and heading upstairs. Below his feet were drops of maroon. He took one step, praying it wouldn't creak. He wanted to sprint up the stairs and check, but Sherlock's indirect warning from last night wavered through his mind. Was there danger here now?

"John!" Lestrade whispered harshly. "What's wrong?"

"Give me the gun," he whispered, turning back to them and holding out his hand, the sheer dread and alarm in his entire body spreading to the others.

"Why?" John huffed and snatched the gun from Lestrade's hands, making his way towards the stairs, and ascending. Lestrade looked round at the others in confusion, mouthed a curse at the ground and went after John.

Each step let out a far-off creak, John taking a few seconds to go another step, moving closer to the tightly shut door at the top of the stairs. Every step had a few drops of blood, a streak every few centimetres that trailed along the wall. The sight of blood, the knowing of his friend's return, it caused a hefty stone to form in his stomach. What was behind the door? _Who_ was behind the door? He steadied himself on the landing, gun ready to be raised and his other hand grasping the door handle. Lestrade grabbed his shoulder, nodding when John glimpsed back.

With one swift motion, he opened the door and looked into the flat. He barely raised the gun from his side before dropping it, wanting to collapse to his knees and scream at the body in front of him. The breathing, beaten, weak body.

Lestrade followed behind, thinking John had dropped the gun from attack, not thinking to stop the others climbing up the stairs. He remained as dazed as John, both their jaws lowered and eyes disbelieving. The three other responses were very different. Mycroft was startled, cringed almost, but immediately dealt with the shattering screams of Molly when she realised too who was sat on the floor, bleeding to possible death. Mrs Hudson began trembling as she helped Molly down the stairs, Mycroft following behind, not wanting to see the man anymore.

"Good to see you," Sherlock murmured with difficulty, forcing a smile on his beaten face. With the sound of his voice shaking him, John assessed the damage he could see with the light of the fire. A variety of slashes across his body, John's first concern drawn towards the one on Sherlock's chest that he was trying to cover, a clean cut through the clothes and quite deep into his skin. That was just the surface, because he could see several more serious injuries on the man lying on the floor, his back lent against the black armchair while blood dripped into the rug. Avoiding looking at the horror of Sherlock's face, he saw a deep wound in his right thigh, then a thin slice across the right of his abdomen. He was drawn to the blood trailing from a slash across his upper arm, and above that a thin cut across the right of his collarbone and the heavily streaming wound in his right shoulder, the several holes the shape of jaws, a large dogs'. His clothes were torn, ripped, stained with the many shades of fresh and drying blood. After a quick gulp, he looked at the damage of his face as the fire flickered light onto it.

The pale face he saw just a day ago was hidden under a mess of red, black, blue and purple. Blood streamed from his mouth, the black eye intensified from a punch more brutal battering than John had given him. His face was plastered in formed and still forming bruises, and his right cheek cut open from a well-aimed and powerful punch, just a few small drops falling since the blood had already congealed. No, it was the blood gushing from his broken nose and the crimson stream coating the right side of his face that made John want to run away, that made the violent injuries in the war seem like grazes on a child's knee.

"You're alive?" spluttered Lestrade. Sherlock no longer possessed a smile, facing the fire and his face screwing up, John knowing he was trying to hide the agony coursing through him.

"Barely," he muttered in reply. It snapped a reaction in John, immediately walking over and helping Sherlock off the ground and into the chair, looking a little more closely at the wounds. They looked worse up close, but John held his breath, swallowed hard and rushed off to the kitchen. Lestrade, unsure of what he was doing, moved closer to Sherlock, still staring with utter disbelief.

"H-how… What?" was all he could muster before Sherlock interjected with a sigh followed by a cough, drops of blood on his palm.

"Don't, please don't." He could barely speak, sounding like there was a boulder trapped within his throat, his difficulty to speak making him screw up his face further and clutching his chest with concern. "I've answered enough questions."

"You've answered none," Lestrade gasped before he could stop himself, guilt flooding his eyes afterwards. Sherlock watched John walk over with a first aid kit, a cloth and a bowl of hot water.

"Not necessarily to you…" he answered quietly, trying to save his breath.

* * *

Half an hour later, the time past in a long-running silence, things were more calm. John had pulled a chair from the desk next to Sherlock and tended to the wounds as best he could. After it seemed adamant Sherlock was refusing to remove his hand from his chest, John focused on the still running wound on his temple, most of the time spent wiping away all the blood which hadn't dried into Sherlock's hair and skin. Lestrade, barely able to stand with utter shock, much like John the previous night, sat on the sofa watching from the other side of the room.

"Who did this to you?" John finally asked silently, cleaning the cloth in a bowl of deep red water. Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his bruised eyes, the hand once limply holding a gun replaced with a towel to his nose, now mostly stained red as his nose seemed to leak blood to no end. "Who was it?"

"If you must know, a variety of people," he muttered angrily at the wall opposite, meaning to avoid John and Lestrade's concerned faces. The two exchanged a shrug and John shook his head to the inspector, basically informing him that Sherlock wouldn't say anything of use. The doctor went back to tending his patient.

"I need to look at the other wounds," he said, checking the stitches he had sown on Sherlock's cheek a few minutes previous. The man nearly growled at the idea. John scowled. "Do you want to get back on your feet or not?" He was more aggressive than planned and Sherlock threw away the cloth he'd been holding at his nose.

"Why don't you leave me alone?" he said, meaning to shout but not possessing the energy to do so.

"You're acting like a child!" John yelled. Then another silence fell, but it seemed John was the one who brought it on himself. Angry, confused, shocked, upset, every emotion and feeling possible, snapping at the slightest bother, the last thing he had wanted to do was shout at Sherlock. The man was clearly in pain, hurt, possibly dying, yet his lack of cooperation was limiting John's patience. Why couldn't he just accept help?

Feet climbed the stairs and the older Holmes appeared through the door, a misery coating his eyes when he saw Sherlock in not a very different state from when they all walked in. But he tried to remain professional.

"How are you feeling, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft, being more direct than John had ever seen him. It was a direction of care, utter concern. Then he saw the still bleeding laceration on his chest and must have realised why John was shouting. "Why haven't you let John look at your wounds?" Sherlock's response was a mumble of words that were so forced and low that it formed into a deep growl.

"Listen to your brother," Lestrade spoke up, hinting the begging tone. Sherlock kept his head low, clutching his chest tighter, trying to hide the contorted pain in his face. Mycroft attempted another speech of insistence.

"If you don't let the doctor treat you then the only other way shall be to take you to hospital and-" Mycroft quickly spoke, intending to remind Sherlock that walking outside the walls of the flat could result in exposure, that for now the only safe place to be was here. However, the fury dwelling behind Sherlock's shadowed face was at breaking point.

"Enough!" he snapped, his voice just making it to the volume of a shout. His glare went straight to Mycroft and no-one else. He forced himself to his feet, walking over till he was eye-to-eye with his brother. "You do not tell me what to do. I know my current state. I know all consequences and I have survived the past few years independently, suffering much worse injury! I stayed alone, isolated and I'm still standing. No-one cared for me over the years and no-one needs to care for me now. None of you know anything about how I'm suffering, so why not keep yourselves distanced!?" After he had finished his hissing retort, blood occasionally spattering from his lips, he turned, grabbed what still remained in the first aid kit, his bags and stormed off towards his room, all in one fluid motion and the resentment emanating from his very body. There was the slamming of a door and silence.

"Damnit, Mycroft," John muttered, his head now in his hands. He guessed Lestrade was scowling at Mycroft for him. He sighed and lightly tapped his umbrella on the ground.

"I best make a leave," he said, looking down at the floor.

"Yes, you should," John quickly snapped under his breath, clearing up what had been knocked over in Sherlock's exit, collecting the blood-stained cloth and the bowl filled with red water.

"Mrs Hudson and I have sent Molly home so she can try to recover herself and I've informed your dear landlady to stay within her own abode to avoid any more reactions," Mycroft finished. Narrowed eyes followed John towards the kitchen. "I'll be in touch soon." Without even looking at Lestrade he turned and left, trudging down the stairs and not closing the broken door in his unhappy state.

Not wanting to dwell on Mycroft's anger towards his brother, John occupied himself by washing out the darkened bowl, and then having to turn away so he didn't see the mix of blood and water washing down the sink.

"Jesus…." His screwed his eyes up in thought, trying to bare the truth, trying to bare the reality. Lestrade looked round the corner.

"You alright, John?" he asked, trying to seem casual about the whole situation. John mustered a forced laugh, looking up at the light above the sink.

"Never better," he joked, abandoning the cleaning and leaving it on the side to sort out tomorrow. Lestrade sighed.

"It's what you were going to tell us, that Sherlock was alive?" he asked, letting John pass towards his armchair.

"Yeah, I came home a few days ago when I finally left the flat and he was just… there! He had a drink, said some sort of warning and off he went!" John answered, getting a little angrier with each word, now taking a deep breath. "I should have told you straight away. Maybe he wouldn't be in such a mess…"

"Don't worry about it, you were in shock. And I'm sorry." John looked up from the fire in shock at Lestrade's apology. He was standing by the door, obviously intending to believe, but wanted to apologise for nothing as far as John could tell.

"What are you apologising for?"

"Not believing it was Sherlock outside the pub that night. You were right, I was wrong. We were all wrong." Lestrade sighed, shaking his head at himself. "Listen, if you're fine here and dealing with the train wreck in the other room, I'll be going." John couldn't help but laugh a little at Lestrade's accurate summary of Sherlock and nodded.

"I'll be fine. See you later." The detective inspector smiled and walked off, clearly attempting to shut the broken door as best he could from the two loud slams downstairs.

Everything was suddenly different. With everyone gone, apologies, arguments, the past three years, the past three days, Sherlock's return… The world had just turned inside out with no warning. The night was suddenly terrifying and safer, the questions meaningless for now. Together with John's whirlwind of thoughts came the undying hole growing in his chest, everything said, everything done. What was happening? What did he do next?

He found himself with his head in his hands once again and forced himself to attempt sleep. John made for the hallway to his room, just walking through the doorframe with legs that felt like pillars of lead. Only when he turned did he meet a moving shadow.

"AGH!" John jumped out of his skin, knocking back against the wall, grinding his teeth together in frustration immediately afterwards as the other man took a step back, guilt washing over the barely lit and tired eyes. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock… What are you doing there?" Without answer or a simple gesture, Sherlock turned and stormed off to his room again, the door slightly ajar.

"I would have thought you'd clear my room out, but it seems you're not in the mood for questions," was the eventual response. John went to argue, but felt something move past both his ankles. He looked down to see, thinking he could hear tapping. When he couldn't find the source anywhere as it grew quieter he looked back up at Sherlock walking away, following behind.

"Neither Mrs Hudson or I could bring ourselves to clearing it out. You left us with so much grief that we couldn't even throw away all your bloody research papers and equipment." Sherlock was nearing the door.

"And you gave Mrs Hudson enough hope in my return that she kept it as clean as possible," he mumbled. John, slightly taken aback, stopped for a second. By the time he could react and catch up to speak, the door was slammed in front of him. He slammed the door with his fist, opening his mouth to shout, but not even a sound was made.

John kicked it in frustration and went back to the kitchen, now feeling the large urge to have a drink.

The hatred was not to last.

Ignoring the dirty cloth, bowl and the first aid kit still open on the kitchen counter; he grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat on the wooden chair closest, leaning on the wooden table. God, he wished he could punch Sherlock again, literally knock some decent sense into the man. But he was in such a poor state.

'_He spoke of worse injuries'_ John's brain told him. What could be worse than the current lacerations to his body? Maybe there was more hidden? He was sure he saw bruising under his shirt, and on his knuckles. What if they were more injuries than currently visible? Had Sherlock broken bones and recovered alone over the past three years? Had he been stabbed, shot at? All that coupled with him running from beatings, climbing roofs, running from John and Lestrade… How could he have lasted so long?

'_He suffered through it. Maybe there was nothing he could do without really putting himself in jeopardy,'_ he thought again. Sherlock's face had been all over the papers, the news; he was the most recognised face for several months, always being rediscovered with each yearly event. Walking into a shop, trying to get into a shelter for rough-sleepers, he couldn't do that without being seen. John was sure there was more behind this than met the eye, maybe to do with how what Sherlock's task was, to do with the message in his suspected 'home' at the cemetery. Every guilty wonder made the anger drain away from, the large downs of beer helping with that. By the time the bottle was empty he was beginning to sob in his hand, the other gripping the bottle.

After several minutes of silence and tears, he left the bottle on the table, turning to get another from the fridge. He reached up to grab it and saw his dinner still in its packet on the shelf below. Food didn't agree with him that evening. He grabbed another bottle, closed the fridge and made his way to sit and watch TV… He looked at the bottle as he stood at the kitchen doorway, then tried to remember seeing any wrappings at the burnt down shelter, and then looking back at the fridge.

He was no longer alone.

Not much later John was heading towards Sherlock's bedroom door, carefully carrying a tray with the heated dinner and a steaming mug of tea. He gently knocked at the door, hoping for a response. There wasn't one.

'_Sleeping for once?' _John wondered. He waited a little longer, sighed and left the tray and its contents by the door, returning to his own room for sleep. He would have felt that the gesture was meaningless, just another act of helping Sherlock recover as Mycroft wished. That would have been the case if not for the neatly folded note he left under the plate.

_Sorry._


	13. Recovery Pattern

**Chapter 13**

Dreamless sleep was a gift to him, and the decent hours to wake up at were reassuring to him, but other than those two thoughts his mind was groggy and blurred. He heard discussing voices far away. Focusing more, he realised they were downstairs, discussing a broken door. When did it break? He slid from bed and rubbed the back of his neck when he heard it click as he walked out towards the parlour. The smell of food lingered in the hallway. That cleared some of the fog within John's mind as he turned to find the tray at the second bedroom door, both plate and mug empty.

"Oh God…" That's when John finally remembered last night, the bullet through the lock, finding his best friend bleeding to death by the fire, the arguments. Did nothing ever go smoothly for him anymore?

He carried the tray back to the kitchen, doing his best to stay balanced on shaky legs. An eerie silence was throughout the flat when he blocked out the voices downstairs. The raven that had been perched outside the window last night was gone. John stumbled around in his groggy state, something he already highly disliked, made his footsteps thud against the wood. The pale light of dawn pierced through the air from the street, making the several feathers shine around the black armchair, though he was sure they were Black Markers as he stared at them, the light reflecting off the glossy surface, but the edges not so battered and clipped as the ones he owned.

As he assembled a mug of coffee, glancing miserably at the dirty medical kit by the sink, red water dried in a swirling pattern around the plug and the stained, scrunched up rag for his friend's broken nose covering the bandages underneath. Checking underneath it showed red blotches staining the once fresh bandages. Something to have to leave the house and buy when he knew it would be safe to leave Sherlock.

Carefully sipping on the morning drink rebooted his systems, making the vision in front of him slowly become clearer with every minute. As each drop of dried blood came into focus, some already crusting on the wooden floor and rug, each second of last night's memories replayed in his head; walking through the door, seeing his best friend silently deal with the agony on the floor, still bleeding wounds, and a bruise-coated face, everything horrible to see.

'_Now what do you do?' _he asked himself and felt the answer already forming in his head. '_You help Sherlock recover!' _John was surprised the answer hadn't come to him as simply as last night. It was so simple! Help Sherlock recover; get him back into the world, make things as they used to be!

Get answers.

No, it wouldn't be that simple. Sherlock would now be considered a dead man walking; the world had shoved him out, sealing the gates, prepared to tear him apart if he stepped back in. Making things as they used to be was out of the question, and this was probably half of it! John still didn't know what Sherlock's warning had meant…

"Breathe, calm yourself, one step at a time," John whispered to himself as he thoughts began speeding ahead too fast and making his head spin. A few deep breathes, clearing his mind of questions, queries, focusing solely on current time and events. Keep tasks within the flat, make sure Sherlock was alright. But what was the point in trying to help him when he kept rejecting assistance!?

* * *

Later that morning, John was reading the paper, enjoying a light lunch with the TV on low, and noticing the agile raven outside the window, suspiciously returned. He would have questioned its repeated presence, but he followed with the mornings plan and went through everything that had to be done within 221B. Investigating ravens wasn't on the list.

He had finally cleared the first aid kit away, scrubbed the red water stained bowl- doing his best not to remember whose blood it was – and taking no time to throw away the bloody rag, sadly a few dirty bandages too, leaving only one small strip left. The tray had been cleared of its contents, the small note missing. So it had meant something. John decided to pass the consideration of refilling the mug and leaving it by the door for now, as no movement or sound was heard from that side of the flat. He did wonder, or more panic, that Sherlock might not be still breathing, but a knock on the door and the responding grunt of disapproval only made him smile and walk away. The man for once slept.

After this he had turned to clearing the crimson liquid from the floor and chair, leaving the wooden floor around the seat much shiner than the rest. He made to clean the stains in the stairwell, but Mrs Hudson had got there first, probably in the very early hours of the morning before the repairmen arrived for the door. As much as he wished as the landlady hadn't dealt with the blood, it meant he had one less task to do and more of a chance to focus on his friends recovery. When he could actually get involved that is.

While enjoying the calm of midday, the news basic and the paper holding small articles of varying topics, he kept himself entertained and able to avoid eye-contact with the raven outside. The small bird spent equal time looking into the flat and watching the street below, looking to the left, right and straight ahead in an unchanging pattern for equal amounts of time before turning, for an equal amount of time, into the flat.

The raven suddenly followed something on the street below, which John couldn't bring himself to ignore, and as it looked directly below at the front door, the bell rang. John huffed, thinking it was coincidence, making to answer the door, but he heard it open before he stood. Mrs Hudson was certainly up and about to day. No bad hip was getting in her way.

Simply seconds later, Lestrade walked through the open door, looking back to wonder where the stains had gone. John smiled, but stayed sat.

"I see you've been busy." His glance at the clean area by the fire assured John what Lestrade was talking about, but he still shook his head.

"Not as busy as I would have liked to be. It's actually been a pretty slow morning." There was a pause, Lestrade looking around, everything cleaned and looking towards the hallway.

"What's he been doing?"

"Sleeping if you can believe it," John joked, standing to turn the kettle on, or grab a beer from the fridge if the conversation got low. "And he ate."

"I'm actually not that surprised. Poor sod must have been through hell." John stayed quiet as he made the drinks. Hell seemed an appropriate way of putting it together. But how much was hell? Some people compare hell to a bad day, others just being alive. But hell came in different forms, and Sherlock's must have been pretty close to a horrid hell if they were right on what they were guessing he'd been through. "How are you coping anyway?"

"If you count a decent sleep and not wanting to forget the past few days then pretty good," he said with a smile, handing over the coffee Lestrade requested between his question and John's answer. "How about you?" There was another pause.

"I guess the simplest way to put it is shock," Lestrade said simply, intending to carry on, but a head popped round the kitchen door corner and Mrs Hudson smiled at them. Her eyes looked tired, most likely from last night and the morning's activities, but she wore her usual smile which John was glad to see. "Hey, Mrs H."

"Is everything alright up here?" She made a glance towards the hallway like Lestrade. John shook his head, almost wanting to laugh at them both.

"Sherlock's going to be fine. He _is_ fine. He's just resting up." Lestrade's face suddenly showed concern.

"Have you actually seen him since last night?" John opened his mouth to speak but closed it again.

"Uh... Strictly speaking no, but I have checked on him." He explained leaving out food, finding the empty tray that morning and knocking on the door mid-morning to hear the disgruntled response from Sherlock. Lestrade sighed at first, but shrugged while Mrs Hudson seemed fairly convinced he was okay.

"Just look after him," Lestrade said.

"When do I not?"

* * *

Several hours later, long after Lestrade had left for a late shift and Mrs Hudson had gone out to see some friends, John found himself staring at the laptop in his lap, his blog up and hit count at an understandable zero. Since the Fall he hadn't written anything at all. Nothing seemed worth documenting in his life. He felt like writing something now, telling the world that his final update on Sherlock's death had been false all along. Of course he couldn't. That would cause more problems than Sherlock walking out the front door.

Later he found himself looking at the transcript of the strange dream from several months ago. He'd already established the first line, indicating friendships built after Sherlock's death. How a message in an unreal dream was relating to reality he didn't know. The second line still held more confusion. Did the truth rising relate to Sherlock returning and being the only man suspected to have the answers to John's questions? But darkened dead? Refusal to fall back?

Frustrated, he closed the laptop, hoping the answers would appear before him. Nothing. Instead he heard creaking wood behind him and shuffling feet. He looked around and to his utter amazement he saw the thought-to-be sleeping man standing in the kitchen. John gawped for a while, his mouth left hanging open to say something but failing to. Sherlock, turning the tap to stop the stream of cold water filling a glass, caught John's gaze as he made to grab something from a cupboard, no doubt food. He froze like he was caught in the spotlight while robbing a bank with no means of escape or any idea how he got there. There was a locking of eyes, but it broke off as he quickly shuffled away with food and water in hand, John simply following. Despite the fact he was still wearing the same dark, dirty, ripped clothes of last night, John couldn't help but be impressed.

His injuries seemed clean, tended to. He wasn't being ridiculous and spending long hours awake, or rushing around. He was doing what he really needed, and that was resting. Though his fear to be seen wondering around was a mystery. Then the fact Sherlock had grabbed some food reminded John of his neglect of refilling the tray's contents to leave by the door.

By the time the sun was down, John had not only refilled the contents with a hot meal, a warm drink and another glass of water, he put the remaining bandages of the first aid kit on there as well, since Sherlock appeared to have a basic idea of how to look after himself, despite an army doctor living in the same walls. When John returned to his seat to watch unnecessary late night TV, he saw the raven from the morning perched outside. The funny thing was is that throughout the entire day, it had stayed glued to its spot, making the repetitive movements of observing the surrounding area. Only now did things change. It gave a final scan through the window, a final look at the street, and then it flew up. No doubt to find a better place to roost, but John was sure that the bird would be back. Why, he may never know.

* * *

Over the following four days, a pattern began emerging. John left food in the morning and the evening, but avoided midday. He went out to shop, stacking up on bandages, painkillers which he began leaving out for Sherlock, food, but he always stuck around at midday. That's when Sherlock woke up, emerging from his room not as silently as he wished, and crept through the flat to the kitchen to grab whatever he needed and could carry. Remembering the reaction of the first day of Sherlock's official return, he would sit at the desk, or in his armchair, reading the paper, reading something on his laptop, and glimpsing round when he was sure Sherlock wasn't looking. It was only to make sure he was alright.

Much to John's dislike, his friend seemed to hold no indication on a plan to change clothes, but it didn't matter as long as the lacerations appeared to be clean, his cheek healing, his nose somehow back in shape and the bruising diminishing at a slow rate. The glass of water seemed to be a one-off, as the following adventures outside Sherlock's room resulted in the making of tea, while grabbing something from the cupboard and possibly something from the fridge if such an item was there, or if he could carry it. John had to hold back a laugh sometimes, resulting in a strange smile on his face that Sherlock almost glared at.

However, one thing that John always looked out for, and not very discretely, was Sherlock's eyes moving towards the raven perched outdoors. When he entered and exited the kitchen, his eyes were always drawn to the black, feathered body by the window. John had his own suspicions about the creature, how it was always outside in the light of day and left when the night had begun, but his worries of Sherlock made him overlook it.

* * *

...

* * *

The return hadn't been the smoothest of transitions, but when hurt so badly and needing to remain conscious; he couldn't exactly be delicate with the whole matter. Yet his actions didn't seem to halt the army doctor's kindness, not even the argument in front of his brother and the detective inspector. Desperately needed food and a comforting drink left outside his door, retrieved and replaced merely minutes before his friend awoke. That had been the night of the return and the first day back. Now it was the evening of the first day back, trapped with a weary and cursed body in his room, recovering alone even though he wished he didn't have to.

No, he wasn't alone. He had his companions.

Nonetheless, the stupidity of his reaction when he went to get a drink kept stabbing at him. He wanted exposed, he wasn't endanger, and his secrets weren't written across his face. But his friend's sudden change in response to his presence was a surprise and strange relief. He didn't like being seen, not after spending so long in the shadows. Being seemed by human eyes still felt like it posed a threat; it was ridiculous, but that's what the past three years had been like.

Endless hiding, endless suffering, endless questioning.

It was the third day of his return, still hiding away in the evening hours, sleeping when he wasn't awake eating, or drinking, or examining the wounds littering his body and making sure that he was in good health. There was a knock at the door when he was in the midst of a light sleep, no distant voices spoiling his dreams with talk of past, present and future events he did not currently care for. Curse the voices. But not to curse the knock.

He gave no response at first. He waited for the sound of a clattering tray and the footsteps to go away. When he was sure that it was clear, he opened the door and took what had been left. He clumsily placed it on the side, heading to the sink first, splashing his face with water to regain some concentration. It didn't wake him up anymore, his body had gone into shutdown, reload, recover. Sleep was the main focus and nothing else. His brain had nearly switched off, causing frustration and a calm. It was strange, but it meant good. Wounds were checked, cleaned, fresh bandages on the tray used to cover the gash on his chest. The bruising was still thick around it, the boot print still solid on his chest and laying a finger on his skin made him ache for minutes on end. Only alone was he brave enough to check the wounds under his clothes, when letting the curse show wasn't a threat.

Curse, a word he now hated. It wasn't the right word, but it's how he saw this. _This_ was a secret beyond no other. It wouldn't be revealed. Not to anyone, never. Not even those he trusted most, not family, not friends, all to stop _him_ from knowing. _He _must never know.

The thoughts were gone as he rested his head against the cool mirror, before returning to his bed, the soft mattress and thick duvet superior to the scraggy blanket and worn down mattress he had been using over the past three years. He rested on the side of the bed, leaving two of his three companions sat on the end of the bed, also enjoying the comfort of the duvet. But they were roused from their sleep at the smell of food, not noticing as he ate. Only when Protection neared his lap as he took a gulp of his drink, did he see hunger flooding both their eyes. Protection and Wisdom were both tired and starved, despite how much he tried to look after them as they assisted in his survival. What of Smoke? Smoke was still serving, and how tired Smoke must be. It was then that Smoke itself appeared at the slightly open window that let in a cool breeze in the dark of night, joining Wisdom and Protection at his lap, showing more envy than the others of food. There was no question, or thought.

A quarter was left of his food, the glass on the side refilled at the sink, and left for his three companions to refill tiny but certainly deprived stomachs. Even after two days of nearly solid sleep, his eyelids felt like horrid weights. He lay down, pulling the covers up to his waist. The usual sleeping position was resumed. Protection curled up in his right arm, bent to allow Protection to rest between his upper arm and his chest. Wisdom curled above his head, laying its head in his hair with its body resting on his palm, as he kept his left hand above his head. Smoke was cold and tired, and so curled up not on his chest as usual, but next to his neck, the warmth of the hood helping, resting there to stay warm and to avoid the horrid slash on his chest. Finally resting, finally in his old home and their new one.

Sherlock and his three small, life-saving companions.


	14. New Case

**Warning: This chapter contains a few horrid details on murder. A warning to those who don't like gore and certainly a lot of blood.**

**Otherwise, read on and enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

The quiet five days of recovery had been far too long to John's liking. While the fact that Sherlock was back kept him satisfied, staying in the walls of 221B for so long became rather difficult to bear. He stuck around on the morning of the fifth day, having to watch the news just to figure out what day it was. Friday, it would be a quiet day, which was good. He waited for the usual appearance of Sherlock wondering into the kitchen, pretending to ignore him and as he wrote a shopping list that he did pay some attention to. But he always looked sideways to check him, to see how the wounds looked from afar, how obvious the bruises were. He even checked how he walked, which was improving from the loud shuffling of the first day. Once that had ended, John couldn't stay around any longer.

He checked the cupboards, noted down things to get and left, closing all doors and locking the front door properly, even those Mrs Hudson was staying in. He gave the raven by the window an unneeded scowl before heading to the nearest Tesco.

* * *

Chilly October air brushed against his face as the small wind cut through the streets in his return back. John was thankful for the list as he kept blanking out while scanning the shelves, forgetting where he was for a moment until he checked the crumpled list in his hands. By the end of his little journey around the shop, a streak of luck came about, as a flirtatious smile had been exchanged between him and a suspected new cashier. Maybe the fact he no longer had majorly troubling thoughts on his mind had changed a look in his eyes. He would have tried to start some talk, since he hadn't had much communication with anyone, but he wanted to get back to the flat as soon as possible. Even now the man got in the way of John's attempts at possible relationships.

Despite the change in wind, the raven still perched outside the window, shaking its wings a little to stay warm. The sun was nearly down, so John suspected it would soon retreat like it had been doing for the past few days. He unlocked the door, expecting silence. It wasn't quite silent. The sound was small, very, _very _small. He wasn't sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, but since he couldn't identify the sound he headed upstairs anyway. The rustling bags blocked out the sound and he opened the door to find quite a surprise. With his knees covering the bottom of his face and hugging, or more clutching, his chest was Sherlock, sat curled up in his armchair in the dark with only the light of the TV illuminating him. John wanted to say something, to check if he was alright, but he continued his plan and walked straight to the kitchen.

Sherlock's eyes did drift in his direction, but tried to retaliate at John's actions by also ignoring him and focusing on the news. At least John suspected that was what he was doing. The bags were placed on the counter and he started the long task of unpacking everything to its correct cupboard area and designated space in the fridge. There were glances towards the dark figure in the chair, but he remained motionless and uninterested. John sighed and focused on the task at hand, switching on lights as he went along, but not the ones outside the kitchen. It seemed Sherlock had become a sort of vampire in the past few months.

It was just after that thought, when John was left with two bags left to empty, did he reach for something in the bag to his right and saw a hand in the way, making him freeze.

"What did you buy?" a croaky voice uttered. But not seeing a face made John, once again, jump out of his skin. Slamming his hands on the counter while gritting his teeth, the figure flinched and took a step back like a frightened animal. Regret washed his eyes and guilt spread across his face. John looked round at those features on Sherlock, who looked at the floor. "Sorry…" That was all he whispered, but John didn't want to argue.

"You don't have to say sorry," he said, trying to be kind, but he was talking to a wall. He swallowed hard, turned and pointed a finger at Sherlock. He said it the bluntest way he could. "Don't do that." For once a small sign of a smile appeared as the corner of Sherlock's lip curled. But it depleted as Sherlock continued to watch John emptying the plastic bags, making John grow rather uncomfortable and become agitated. He grumbled something under his breath and looked him in the eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't know where you'd gone," Sherlock mumbled. He sounded like a scared child who had just been found by his parents after wondering around lost for several minutes. He hated the childish side of Sherlock sometimes, but then he knew it only appeared when something was majorly wrong. "I got worried."

"Well I'm back now, so go do whatever you were doing. Sleep, take some food, or watch the TV," John suggested calmly. He didn't look him in the eyes though, so he didn't see the sheer pain in Sherlock's tired, clouded eyes.

"John…" he mumbled. He held his frustration far away and turned, ready to tell him to go away and leave him to sort everything out, but he was too stunned to even blink at what happened next.

"Sherlo-" The arms hugging him didn't let go, only grew tighter, and there was a tired head on his shoulder. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I'm so sorry…" Those were the muffled words that came from his shoulder. He didn't know if this was genuine or from exhaustion, but John couldn't help feel like he was breathing in water. Drowning under shame, disappointed in himself for not seeing why Sherlock was in such a state. The man had left him for three years, left him with so many troubles, returned in a horrid state and sent panic among not just John but the others. And this seemed the only way that Sherlock could get an apology so great to mean something to John. He could be kinder to Molly, not decorate the flats' walls with bullets for Mrs Hudson, simply give a smile towards Mycroft and help Lestrade with anything major. But John knew that after being at the bottom of the hospital, being the one to take the heaviest blow, that it must have been written all over his face how much pain it caused him. Sherlock could read people like a book, and he knew what pain John was hiding, despite his calm over the past few days. He just hadn't picked up the fact that John had already forgiven him, or at least he thought he had.

But he also had to apologise. For his actions, for the arguments, for the horrid behaviour towards him, for the chase, for every last horrid word before the Fall. He moved his arms the best he could under his flatmate's grip and hugged back. While John wanted to think it was awkward, he couldn't help but feel sorry, especially when he had an inkling that Sherlock, despite the man's proud nature, was silently sobbing on his shoulder.

It was after a minute that John really did notice the awkward factor and somehow pushed Sherlock away. He was red eyed, certainly tired and apparently on wobbly legs, since he swayed when John wasn't gripping his arms by his sides. It was like staring into the eyes of a sad puppy and John wanted to tell him to grow up and rest, but all anger had simply been extinguished with sorrow. He sighed at the ceiling and looked Sherlock dead in the eyes.

"Go sit and I'll bring over some food, alright?" He turned him around and gave him a light push away, stumbling away and going back to curling up in the seat. John rolled his eyes, finished his task and did what he said he'd do. It was the strangest TV dinner he'd had to date.

* * *

Saturday, the fifth day of the return, and both men were wondering the flat. If wondering counts as John still staring at his laptop and checking the transcript while Sherlock sat opposite him watching TV on low volume or reading a book, still sitting curled up and at least one arm hugging his healing chest. His face was certainly less bruised, but in the light of day he still looked like trash. John brought him food and a drink when he requested, both ignoring each other but the occasional question escaping Sherlock's mouth. It was usually the whereabouts of his research and science equipment, but otherwise silence in the flat and John peeping at the now three ravens outside. They were bunched together in the cold air, each looking in different directions like they were on watch, all clean and quiet.

It was later, as John sat at his desk reading through horrid bills and similarly boring stuff while Sherlock was watching yet more news that a question escaped his own lips.

"Why haven't you changed? I thought you would have cleaned yourself up by now." He looked at Sherlock to see the back of his head, hair grown out and badly cut. He shuffled in the seat.

"I didn't check to see if you still possessed my clothes," he answered, sounding bored and choked, simply from the pain still in his system. He'd forgotten to take his painkillers that morning. John huffed and continued reading.

"Could you please change at some point? It's not exactly hygienic," John replied, his nose twitching at the smell.

"Why should it matter to you? You haven't been wearing these clothes for two years…" That was the grumbled reply. John bit his lip thinking about it. He wouldn't have been able to purchase new clothes, simply picking what he could from the street to hide his appearance. He was basically homeless and John wasn't exactly being kind about it. But he didn't want to drop the atmosphere in a tub of the blues.

"Because you bloody stink." He could practically hear Sherlock's muscles moving into a smile.

* * *

It was late evening when they heard Mrs Hudson open the front door after five very loud knocks, and Lestrade walked up the stairs. He only saw John at first since the room was still rather dark, but when he saw the TV turn a little brighter and show Sherlock's face in the chair did he jump a little. But Sherlock paid no interest, appearing consumed by the television and the crap shows being played. Old past times die hard?

"Evening, you two. I see your back on your feet?" Lestrade greeted, and then aiming the question towards Sherlock. He looked up, but then went back to the TV, shuffling on the spot and clutching his chest tighter. John, still sat at the desk while sorting out some online banking malarkey on his laptop, rolled his eyes and turned on his seat towards Lestrade.

"You alright, Greg?" John asked. Lestrade looked again at Sherlock, a hint of desperation in his eyes.

"Not good. A case came up," he announced, making Sherlock avert his gaze again, but only for a second. John lost his smile and stood up, genuine interest.

"Then why are you here? Is it serious?" John asked. Lestrade nearly laughed. "You want us to come and look?"

"I think I'm really going to need some help with this one, just from the description on the phone. I'd appreciate Sherlock coming round and-"

"No." Both turned at Sherlock, not even looking at them after his solid answer. John clenched his fists a little. It wasn't like Sherlock to avoid cases, but then anger beat worry. Sherlock should be on his feet, trying to get back around helping his friends. His lack of signs on pain gave no excuse to be avoiding the case.

"Sherlock, we have to go," John said, trying to keep his calm but anger seeped through again. Sherlock turned his eyes, certainly more chilling in the dark, as he glared.

"No. My answer is final." He turned back to the TV. Lestrade looked at John.

"Could you at least come along? Any outside opinion would be appreciated with this case," Lestrade requested. John looked round at the man curled up in the seat being an arrogant child and nodded. They headed for the stairs, John missing Sherlock's eyes following him, and grabbed his coat as Lestrade started explaining the call.

"A few streets not far away, group of kids discovered the bodies and it goes far over the boundary of brutal." John pulled his coat on down the stairs.

"Two bodies?"

"So far it's been categorised as a quadruple homicide," Lestrade answered in the lobby, and that was when the reaction occurred.

"JOHN!" He turned at the shout of his name and heard a crashing in the floor above. "Wait!" A smile was immediately exchanged between the two in the lobby and they headed for the door when running feet went across the flat, to the hallway, to a bedroom, a slamming door, back down the hallway and nearing the stairs. They waited outside as Sherlock practically tumbled down the stairs, Mrs Hudson appearing to investigate, all seeing Sherlock straighten himself out, now sporting a wore down leather jacket, much more appropriate in October at that late hour. "Changed my mind."

"We couldn't tell, glad you could catch up," Lestrade mocked. John had to desperately hold back the inflating bundle of laughter in his chest as Sherlock glared at Lestrade but went off to flag down a taxi, while the detective inspector drove off ahead, quickly shouting the destination to him. Mrs Hudson closed the door behind Sherlock as he gave a cheerful greeting to her, even a smile added on. As a taxi pulled over, the three ravens bunched up by the window watched Sherlock move towards the taxi and then flew off.

* * *

"Okay, why'd you follow?" John asked, the cab chugging along, the cabbie in his own world while driving along and Sherlock looking out the window at the lights streaming past, his face hidden under the shadow of the darkened cab and his now pulled up hood. Sherlock turned in surprise at the break of the silence, disturbed from his own thoughts. He grumbled something inaudible, not wanting John to properly hear. John tried to think of another question and looked at Sherlock. "Where'd you get the jacket?"

"It was a lucky night. Mid-November, some fool was generous enough to give it to me, didn't recognise who I was thankfully. Good winter coat." John knew that Sherlock was secretly grateful for life at the person, but surprised that it was what Sherlock added to his minimal wardrobe to fight the cold days and even colder nights.

"Are you going to answer my first question?" John tried again and he heard a frustrated sigh.

"I heard Lestrade mention what the case was and I got interested."

"Lies." Sherlock gave him a stabbing look from the corner of his eye, but focused on the changing images outside.

"Fine. I didn't want to stay at the flat alone. Too dangerous." John screwed up his face in confusion and then turned to him.

"This is more dangerous than staying at home!" John plainly argued. Sherlock stayed silent for a moment.

"That's why I didn't want you to go alone." It felt like an arrow ripping through his lungs and caused the silence between them to drag on.

* * *

A street away from the flashing lights of police cars, the cab pulled up and let them exit, John handing over the money while Sherlock looked around and ended up staring at the sky. A cold but cloudless night, the stars bright, white and glistening in the cold like frost in the sky, a beauty that Sherlock was admiring, or at least appeared to be. John wondered if he'd attempted to learn some form of astronomy during the past few years.

Ahead, Lestrade had parked his car and was walking over to them, having told the other officers he was greeting John, not the figure that they failed to see in the dark street. John could just make out the silhouette of Donovan standing at the yellow crime scene tape.

"You'll have to stay close with me, but the others will hopefully let you in without argument. As for you Sherlock, it might be a little more difficult," Lestrade explained. John wasn't exactly hated by the entire police force in London, and he wasn't meant to be dead either. Sherlock looked around at the empty street. The main street wasn't far away, but the crime scene was closer. Old houses, some even left empty, with overgrowing gardens and decomposing rubbish for all to see. An alley every three houses, one holding a rusting fire escape. Sherlock's eyes lit up as he looked ahead at the crime scene.

"Where were they found? The bodies?" he asked hesitantly.

"Bunch of kids found them on the second floor of an abandoned house over there." Lestrade pointed to the house and Sherlock squinted, trying to make out the house over the flashing lights. John knew he'd seen what he wanted when a grin appeared.

"If the windows at the back aren't bordered up like the ones on the bottom floor, I should be able to climb in. There's back alleys around here, and the garden fences shouldn't be too difficult to scale." John stared in surprise and Lestrade was more than a little taken aback.

"You'll climb? Sherlock, you're badly hurt! You shouldn't be climbing a fence, let alone scaling a building!" John argued and Sherlock simply smiled back.

"I shouldn't have been climbing after the assault outside the pub. And what happened there?" John gave a (rather amusing) frustrated pout as Sherlock wondered away across the street to an alley. Lestrade coughed and led John over to the yellow tape and a suspicious Donovan. She let John pass and Lestrade led the way through several tiny groups of police officers, eventually reaching the stairs of the dank house. The stench of mould drifted through the air, avalanches of dust visible in the overly-bright lights placed throughout the house. The windows on the bottom floor were completely blocked up with nailed planks and remainders of glass, but John had seen from outside that the wood was crumbling, and not so many had been nailed on the second floor. They climbed the stairs, and a long landing led to a closed door at the end. Dark wood, splintered at the bottom and the lock broken. Had it been the kids who broke it?

Lestrade led the way in, the need for the usual blue overalls overlooked as Lestrade ordered the officers upstairs to leave for a while. John examined the surrounding area more closely. Sherlock certainly wasn't going to get the chance to look here, so he may as well try to spot something now before being put inside a room with the dead bodies. The carpet had been ripped up long ago, stains visible on the under layer. Large patches of brown and a mould lining the side. But among this were black scuff marks and… was it drops of blood? He wanted to look closer but Lestrade ordered him into the room.

A room of bodies, or what was left of some of them.

"Oh God..." John exclaimed, Lestrade losing his foot a little at the sight. He must have heard details over the phone or when he arrived, but this was his first time seeing the site too. Four victims, blood everywhere. As Lestrade closed the door there was a knock at the only window in the room. It was at the back of the house, the nails weak and looking easy to move. John went over and carefully pulled them off, trying to be quiet to not alarm the officers downstairs. Sherlock climbed through the broken glass and walked round the edge of the room, examining the scene, but even he was struggling to hold himself together in the first few seconds of seeing the sight. There was a silence among them, all taking in the scene. John flinched when Sherlock began looking closer, kneeling to look into the lifeless eyes of the victims and examine the lethal wounds that killed them. It was when he looked towards the maze of large wooden furniture that he said something rather worrying.

"There's a fifth."

* * *

...

* * *

Finding his way to the back of the house was simple with the lights glaring through the dark windows, jumping over fence even easier, but then he got to the house itself. He still ached from the assassins beating and being cooped up in bed for four days, but he paid attention to any pain in his chest. That was the most lethal and sensitive of his injuries, even the one in his thigh had healed up. Stitches had been applied to almost every cut, but the large knife had left a horrid, but not scar-worthy mark and it wasn't going to heal without causing pain.

He climbed the house, the bricks sticking out at different points and the window ledges perfect for climbing. His bite wound from the aggravated canine stung, but he buried the pain. He kept forgetting that wound, but it still wasn't as bad as his chest, which simply made his breathing feel strangely heavy. He stayed ducked under the window until he heard the door close, sure only his friends were in the room. A knock at the wooden planks and John cleared the entrance for him. Only when he climbed through the window did he take in the scene. He'd seen similar with single bodies, but not a number this large. This type of death still made him shudder for a moment, but he was limited for time and had to focus.

It was a large room, appearing smaller due to the strange pile up and assortment of wooden furniture, dressers, bookshelves, wardrobes, and the latter, all at the back. In the cleared space of the room were the four bodies, two not completely bodies. He moved closer, avoiding the pool of blood nearly enveloping the wooden floor, studying what he guessed to be the first victim. A young woman, spread out on the floor near the window. He placed her in the age group of mid-twenties; smartly dressed from what clothing he could see that wasn't plastered in red. Her death would seem obvious from the neatly cut opening in her chest, from collarbone to naval, spread open to reveal her cracked ribcage. But the blood pattern didn't fit, instead deciding her death was due to the bruising around her neck. Strangled to stop possibly her screaming?

The next body was a scrawny middle-aged man, whose hands were hung from the ceiling, his body in a pyramid shape, his knees and feet together under his body. There was bruising around his head from both sides of the mouth, rope tied to only allow muffled and limiting noises. Rope burn marks around his wrists answered what he'd been restrained with before death, but now a thin metal bar went through his wrists, a short chain in the centre attached to the ceiling. Blood had dried on his arms. That wasn't his death. The marks under his chin showed where his head had been pulled back, fingernails digging in to scratch skin, as the killer sliced open the neck, a perfectly straight line, leaving a waterfall of blood soaking the front. He couldn't tell if some of the blood around the neck had shifted for some reason… It looked like it had been licked. Surely not?

Victim number three. Another male, a university student, a whiff of alcohol suggested partying. At this hour he might have been 'bar hopping', but that drunken stupor had ended with kidnap and now death. Now he was a dead body in an abandoned house. Some of a body anyway. Half his face and been beaten to a new shape, but he was still alive afterwards. Fingers missing, toes missing after shoes had been removed. They weren't clean cuts either. Not a knife, not blown off with a gun. They had been ripped off after, what Sherlock he see to be bite marks. He looked around, hoping that it had been a deranged canine to do so, but no paw prints marked the pool of blood and the marks didn't fit on the skin. There were more on his limbs and body, chunks of flesh missing. Pure terror must have left him dead with terrified, open eyes. The bite marks… They were… human. No, it couldn't be cannibalism. Could it? Only one case in the past few months had contained cannibalism, and that was when Danger first appeared. Danger couldn't be left to roam the streets if not caught by the police. And even then, what would the police do when they found out that Danger only looked human?

Fourth and final victim, a business man, in his mid-twenties like the first and was easily identified to have died with his hands tied, gagged, and large chunks taken out of his wrists and neck. Sherlock, starting to become slightly scared at the possibility of Danger, stood and observed the entire scene. There weren't any links between these people. They didn't know each other. He hoped this wasn't some horrid link to believing in him. Nonetheless he continued looking at the details. Among the blood was rope. That was what was used to restrain these people. There was more than enough to gag the woman by the window, but maybe it wasn't enough to silence the screams. He walked around, checking the view for more, signs of struggle, and times of death. He stepped over the trail of blood leading out into the furniture maze and looked at the shades of blood. The first kill was about four hours ago. He saw the scratches in the wall, scuff marks on the floor. But there were more than thought for four abducted people. A half an hour gap between each killing, so the killer could torture them all with the sight of each one being picked off? Then the horrid truth unfolded. All from one simple observation he nearly overlooked. The trail of blood between his feet wasn't heading into the maze of furniture, it was heading _out. _

"There's a fifth." John and Lestrade looked up in horror at his quiet announcement. He looked around behind him, seeing the mass of wardrobes and dressers, the lack of the light and the kingdom of shadows. He wondered, there were no knives or guns left here, none found nearby, that maybe… But he needed a sign.

"We need to look for them. Where are they!?" Lestrade exclaimed in worry and Sherlock held up a hand to silence them both when he realised it. The killer had every chance of still being here. Because the trickle of blood wasn't just fresh. If Danger was the killer, then it wouldn't have left until all blood stained the floor and more flesh devoured. Danger was hiding.

"The killers still here," he whispered to them as they walked over. Lestrade withdrew his gun and Sherlock, holding his breath, led the way, holding his hand up again to inform them of waiting until he gave a sign. He snuck into the shadows. The gaps were tiny, narrow, and hard to navigate. He could easily make his path easier to steer, but that would involve moving the objects, if one wardrobe got knocked over it would be a giant version of dominos, and with a high chance of someone getting badly hurt. The light quickly disappeared as he made for the centre, each step lightly placed to avoid creaking.

There was a noise, shuffling on wood. Sherlock pressed against one of the wardrobes, moving even more slowly. The shuffling stopped and he looked around the corner. In a circle of dressers he saw her. A young woman, also a university student; terrified, black tears of mascara, restrained with her wrists and ankles tied with rope and a piece of cloth silencing her. It didn't seem to be needed, as the shock had left her in silence. Blood was trickling to the scratches on her shoulders, legs and two across her neck. It was a miracle for her the blood had reached the main area, or she may not have been discovered for a long time. Sherlock climbed over the dresser and knelt in front of her, placing a finger to his lips, asking her to be silent. She nodded her head through the trembling as he undid the gag, letting her breath normally, but she did so slowly and quietly again.

'_Where's the killer?' _he mouthed, cupping her cheek to reassure he wasn't going to harm her. She looked away from his pale eyes and behind him. He turned around and saw a wall of wardrobes. Hidden behind there, the girl seemed sure. '_Wait here. Help will come.' _She nodded in understanding as he undid the rope around her wrists and ankles. She curled up into a tight ball, trembling uncontrollably as he climbed back over and further into the maze to get in front of the wardrobes.

There was a turning, that's what he could feel anyway, as he was relying on touch more in the utter darkness. He looked back. The light of the main area was far enough, the others far enough away. He looked back, blinked, and the darkness was no longer his foe when seen through the darkened eyes. But then another form of help arrived. It was the voices, the whispering voices, speaking about something around the corner ahead, something about moving. Sherlock took a step forward, missing the turning as he tried to figure out the message from the voices, but then the figure, illuminated in red and black through his darkened eyes, covered his view until he was kicked off course.

Banging wood and creaking crashes, losing focus is the eyes that see through the dark. He was able to stop a bookshelf crushing his chest and slid out from underneath to follow the killer. He was waiting for him and slammed a large foot onto his left shoulder. If it has been his right he would have cried in pain. As the killer ran through the toppling maze, he tried to grab his ankle from the ground but failed. He scrambled to his feet, sprinting past the now empty space of where captive number five had been hiding, trying to climb over the fallen furniture and get to Danger before it got to his friends.

He jumped the final metre and slammed the killer to the ground, just before reaching the horrid blood pool. Sherlock was about to pull his arm back to pin him down, but the same arm jerked back and an elbow collided with his bruised chest. He couldn't help but fall back as Danger barged past the two stunned men and headed for the door. Sherlock was again on his feet, grabbing the killer's shoulders as he leapt over the blood, but Danger spun round and grabbed his neck. Then he was thrown through the door, shattering the wood, and sliding across the landing. The shadow of Danger flew over him, barging through officer, jumping from the landing and fleeing.

Two pairs of arms helped him up but he spun round trying to find the killer. Officers looked up in shock, surprise, confusion, some even thinking he was a suspect. Only when Lestrade gave the order to chase the first man who was the killer and John had helped the girl from the room to a female officer at the end of the hall did Sherlock jump the landing himself and make for the door.

Danger couldn't escape. Danger needed to be arrested or better killed. Danger held answers he needed. Danger was going to be hunted.

And Smoke was in the air.


	15. Danger

**Chapter 15**

It was all a blur for him, Sherlock chasing after a shadow and then being thrown through a door, dealing with the fifth captive's screams and everything coming to a halt a few seconds later. John helped the young woman to an officer that rushed up the stairs at the sight of the trembling girl, leading her away. He barely got a chance to check how Sherlock was when he and Lestrade lifted him up. The shadow John had now presumed to be the killer packed a punch to be able to send Sherlock through the door, some splinters were still hanging off Sherlock's hood and trousers. Officers on the ground below were looking at the open front door and then looking towards Sherlock, all confused, some even thinking him to be the suspect.

Then he took off, jumped from the high landing, sprinting through the gap in the crowd of police. They just stumbled out the way. Everyone had lost focused in seeing the dead man standing on the landing above, almost the perfect scene of a ghost movie. John clenched his fists to refocus, and when Lestrade finished barking orders, telling them to pursue the first man, the killer, everyone finally delved into action, including John.

With Lestrade right behind, they ran out the front door and into the dark street, only lit by the flashing blue and red of the police cars and the faint lights of the high street down the road. He couldn't see either of the men anywhere. Donovan was rushing towards them, pointing up the road into the black void of the rest of the street, when a new pair of lights burst into view. Out of nowhere Sherlock appeared, or at least John assumed that for a second.

A deep blue car streamed past, swerving a little in an attempt to run over the darkened figure, only catching his side, but sending Sherlock to the ground still. There was a loud grunt before a scramble to his feet and running across the street into darkness. Donovan was shouting at Lestrade for answers who gave them to her the best he could, trying to keep her calm, but John went ahead to follow the sight of the car, as Sherlock was now nowhere to be seen, eaten up the shadows of the alleys. The car was nearing the main street making a lot of distance between escape and arrest.

"JOHN!" The voice came from above, and then he saw the silhouette against the starry sky and knew Sherlock was once again was taking to the roofs. The bickering officers looked in his direction as well and he pointed towards the killer's escape route. A few quick instructions were exchanged, and before he knew it John was in a car with Lestrade, Donovan left to deal with orders to the remaining officers, the engine started and the chase begun.

* * *

...

* * *

Foolish seconds stalling left him at a huge disadvantage in terms of distance between him and Danger. If he had jumped straight after the killer he could have jumped him quicker, stopped him from running out into the street. By the time Sherlock made it out into the street, Donovan had been shoved away and he presumed the killer's direction would be towards the bustling main street. Oh how wrong he was. The killer had taken the other turn, and when he saw the headlights flare up, he turned. He tried to grab the car door handle as it drove past, to drag Danger out and make him pay for what he did. It seemed the murderous frenzy had consumed the man when he turned the car to crash into him and send him flying down the street. Luckily he moved in time, but only to save himself from death once more.

The bruises ached before he even hit the ground, breaking stitches on his abdomen and leaving him nearly crying out in pain. But the adrenaline of the situation was, to his greatest wishes, finally kicking in, and with a new source of energy, scrambled to his feet and took off for the alley opposite the house. The shouts of Donovan and Lestrade echoing through the narrow passing as he found the broken fire escape made him grin, the utter confusion in the officer's voice a strange delight. Basking in the questions and wonder of people would have to wait, hunting Danger came first.

Smoke called from above and he replied with orders to follow the killer. Protection and Wisdom were a few roofs away and called for Wisdom to find a point ahead for Smoke to head to, and for Protection to follow his friends, when he sent them on the trail of course. He ran to the edge, looking at the beaten down street below and saw John standing in the middle, looking round in confusion.

"JOHN!" Three faces looked up at him. He pointed towards the street. "Follow him before we lose him completely!"

"How are we going to know where's going!?" Lestrade called back.

"John, your phone!" he shouted back, pulling the recharged phone from his pocket and waving it once above his head for John to notice before running of to start a rough chase. He clutched the communication device in his hand, starting a sprint along the uneven surfaces, jumping the gaps and looking up to see Smoke's direction. When he heard the engine starting at the crime scene, he jumped one gap, grabbing onto a window ledge and climbing the slightly higher surface of the first main street building. Ahead horns were already blaring and shouts of terrified and angered people echoed ahead. The killer was certainly a reckless driver. He'd left a clear path of bashing through the traffic and crowds ahead, luckily no-one majorly hurt. The gap parted further when the lights of the police car broke through from the dark street. But through the colour and bright lights of the main street, Sherlock spotted Smoke darting just above the chaos and he began covering more distance. Protection was visible above the crowd as well, but just ahead of the police car, certain John and Lestrade were making their way through the late night scene.

Wisdom appeared just ahead, alerting him of the safest spot to fight Danger. He knew the street Wisdom spoke of, planning the route he had to make Danger follow. Exit the main street on the third right, emptier streets, longer distance between streets, make sure he goes left on the T-junction, take another right, get to the dark and abandoned street, crash into…

Focus on the path ahead became a sole concentration, making he could avoid all major obstructions in his planned route, hoping Smoke would have the effect of leading Danger to the crash site Wisdom had suggested. Smoke could become a good or bad omen in the killer's eyes. Either would do to take some control of his path. For now there was no chance of control as he continued ploughing through the traffic. Sherlock's path was easier to navigate that the streets, but it didn't counteract the difference in speed or his sprinting and the cars acceleration. The first right turning had just gone, which Sherlock had to expose himself in making the several metres wide jump. Exposure wasn't jumping down into a crowd of people who might recognise his face under the hood; it was seeing the curse on him. The second right was almost directly afterwards, two buildings separating them. More exposure in the jump across and up the side of the building, and he ran while looking at Smoke's progress. Staying to the left of the killer's vehicle, the same way the car was edging towards. Wisdom had noticed before he could request passing on the message, and Smoke was told to change sides. By the time Smoke was on the right of the vehicle and making the turn, the car swerved out of the main street and into the quitter one.

Sherlock had three buildings to sprint across, to keep up, when his phone lit up and John's name became clear.

"Where's he gone!?" The distressed voice was crackly from the strange signal up high, but Sherlock slowed down a bit, already realising what he had to do to keep up. The police car had lost distance in the sea of people and must have lost sight. Lestrade and John were now dependent on him. "Sherlock!"

"The upcoming right turn, then follow the street down, his path will be clear soon," he directed. Wisdom informed him Protection was still with them and knew of the path they were trying to navigate. Exposure was the key to keeping up and he couldn't let the others know of it. "If in doubt, follow knowledge!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean!?" John and Lestrade barked through the speaker. John had to know by now; he'd sent so many out to follow him. Too late, he was on the stretch of the last roof, the police car was nearing the turning and he couldn't let them know. The phone was turned off, buried in his pocket and he summoned what he could of balance. Like all aspects of life, despite the diverse curse he had, there was a science to it. Balance, wind, air, timing, above all was personal strength.

The jump was made and the ground would have to wait to claim him again.

Wisdom took to his side and the street starting becoming a blur. A silhouette of black was either side of him, Wisdom slightly ahead, Protection much further with the backlights of the killer's stolen car. The chase was becoming interesting with every second of cold wind slicing at his face. People still lined the streets, but their eyes had no time to focus the shadow streaming past in the middle of the street above cars and the light of streetlamps. It seemed the killer hadn't noticed either. There was no indicated increase in speed due to him, nor a sudden hit of the brakes in anger or utter disbelief in his form.

The killer was following Smoke, imagining it to be the positive omen it wasn't, not for Danger at least. Danger was being pursued and hadn't noticed its hunter nearing ever closer. Smoke changed sides and Sherlock had just enough time to manoeuvre the sharp left, nearly crashing into a roof while the killer had finished skidding round the left corner and was restarting acceleration down the right. The back right light was smashed on the corner. An extreme change in scenery, at least what could be scene of it.

The blackened street was a void with the lights of a quiet street ahead, otherwise in a blurring perpetual darkness around him. The killer had thought he'd found his escape, his headlights illuminating the way. His speed was reaching ridiculous levels. No word of Protection nearby. He had to get the plan right or the killer might actually make it out. Danger couldn't escape. Then the headlights reached the middle of the street and… Nothing.

Wisdom had spoken of an empty truck waiting for its driver to return, but it had gone. Wisdom was already cursing at itself, but there was another plan. That other plan was known as improvisation. The first idea was dangerous, as all, but it would ensure a certain stop to progress. He gained speed as best he could, heading up to a better height, the horrid shadow in the car's windscreen disappearing. No pursuer. Then the killer could be heard screaming with rage and alarm when something completely obscured in the darkness, blocking out the light of the street ahead, crushed the front of the car, destroying the engine underneath, breaking the headlights in a tiny explosion on each one, igniting flames almost instantly, and with the strange weight bursting the tyres before disappearing towards the sky, the car flipped.

Turning, tumbling, glass sent flying, and ending with a small tilt and crashing to the ground on all four warped tyres, smoke and a few flames flickering out the bonnet.

Sherlock stood in the dark of the street, the fire lighting up the area, the closed down businesses and locked up shops, the only living beings present where him and Danger, the murderer. The curse was hidden, the police sirens growing and the killer emerging from the wreckage infuriated and battered. Smoke and Wisdom fled to meet Protection. Knives were retrieved from within his sleeves and he waited for the fight to begin. The killer's face was obscured for a few simple seconds, Sherlock waiting to see the knotted face of anger look up at him with eyes of Danger. No reaction, just heavy breathing from both them recovering, Sherlock the chase and the killer the crash. The flames crackled and the smoke rose in the air, unaffected by the light wind, concealing the stars above.

Then he raised his head, and instead of eyes of Danger, the deranged eyes of the murderer lit up as he laughed.

* * *

...

* * *

When the main street came into view it was like the chase after Sherlock all over again. Making their way through the crowd was a hell, but when the killer disappeared from the streets did John resort to calling Sherlock who was undeniable ahead. With the speaker phone on and the call supposedly answered, John didn't bother with checking it was Sherlock.

"Where's he gone!?" he yelled down the phone, noticing Lestrade screwing up his eyes to make out every person and drive through the traffic while listening the call. There was static in the call, John sure it was because Sherlock was running. The lack of reply quickly grew agitating. "Sherlock!"

"The upcoming right turn, then follow the street down, his path will be clear soon," his static voice directed through the phone. There was a break, which John didn't like. At that point he noticed an increase of ravens in his sight, from none to one, directly in front of the car to the right. He didn't want to pay attention to it, but it was so strange being there, in fact familiar. The pause grew too long, and just as John went to get Sherlock's attention again did he speak. "If in doubt, follow knowledge!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean!?" John exclaimed alongside Lestrade, their anger flaring up in the dire chase. The phone cut off and while John hissed in frustration, scowling at the bird ahead, Lestrade was cursing at the top of his voice to get through the crowd for the next right turning. It was lucky they got through, bus halting just in time to stop a horrid collision. John tried to look ahead with Lestrade to spot the car, but all John kept noticing was the blasted, distracting raven leading the way.

_Leading _the way, the raven they were following. Ravens meant something to John. Of course Sherlock would know the symbolism, but they were _following_ it he didn't understand. _Follow knowledge._ They had to follow the raven.

He made to instruct Lestrade to follow the black-feathered bird but he halted himself, knowing how ridiculous it would sound. Instead he kept all eyes on the bird and the route ahead, looking for any signs of changing direction. For now it was solid acceleration down the street. In the quieter street, nothing could be seen ahead, not the car they were trying to pursue anyway. The looks of late-night wonders assured them they were heading the right direction. Then John saw the raven move to the left as a T-junction came ahead. But it looked at John, directly into his eyes. Something wasn't right. Lestrade made the intention to turn right, but he stopped him as the sight of smoke and a faint sound crashing erupted ahead.

"Stop the car!" he bellowed and the brakes slammed down, nearly sending them both through the front of the car. The sirens were still going, the red and blue flashing and the car cutting over the pavement corner. The radio suddenly roared with voices trying to grab the detective inspector's attention and he made to reach.

"Sir, the team is heading in your direction; we need to know where you are!" Donovan cried through the radio. Lestrade was about to reply but looked at John first, who was staring at the raven perched ahead, looking down the street on the next right turning. He knew it, he recognised it. One of the three perching outside the window earlier, clean feathers and a sleek shape. The orange glow on its dark feathers indicated fire.

"The killer's crashed on the street down there," he pointed, speaking as quickly as he could. "Sherlock's probably there and the street needs to be blocked off before the killer runs off!"

"I'm not even going to ask how you know all that," Lestrade muttered in scepticism under his breath, reporting to the troubled officer of the street ahead, ordering police cars to meet him at his exact location and to take a longer route round the other end of the street, all officers armed and completely informed of who they were arresting. It was literally seconds later that replies were coming through with positions and cars began meeting up with them. When it seemed enough were present, they sped round the corner and blocked of the scene.

By the time they'd parked in the line, John was already standing out the car and staring the scene. A brutal fight, not one Sherlock was winning. Flames beginning to envelope the car completely, smoke nearly obscuring the lights of the cars opposite. Donovan and Lestrade were shouting near and far, guns being raised and John standing between two cars, trying to stop himself from ripping the killer away from Sherlock. Just when things couldn't seem to get any worse, there was a frozen moment between the killer and Sherlock, before a blur of actions from himself, Sherlock, the killer and then the gunshot reverberating through the street.

* * *

...

* * *

Laughter? Of all things laughter!? The utter insanity dwelling in them did lead to strange actions and responses in certain situations, but with Sherlock ready to defeat Danger, why would it laugh? Senseless, psychotic laughter. A blink of eyes and Danger showing itself. Sherlock took a step forward.

"Goodness me, you're good. I would absolutely love to know how the hell you pulled that off," the murdered cooed, laughing between sentences. The deep voice mixed with the psychotic tone played havoc with Sherlock's confidence. What if he was misjudging Danger's power? What if _he_ was nearby without thinking? He stopped his fingers trembling by placing them against the cold surface of the still-bloody knives hidden under his sleeve behind his wrists.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, I didn't see what triggered your crash," he lied, trying to sound genuine in the late of the night. The killer laughed again, swaying a little. Was he mocking him?

"Utter bollocks. I know it was you; in fact it would answer a lot of things. Like how you were seeing in the house, in the darkness with those particular eyes…" Danger mockingly stretched the eyelids of one of its eyes, showing the darkened feature of sight.

"Speaking of questions, I'd like to ask you a few!" Sherlock's interruption stopped the laughter, leaving Danger confused and an opening for him. He jumped him, taking several long steps forward and pushing Danger into the side of the car, the flames beginning to crawl towards the interior through the cracked windshield. "Why did you kill those people?" He hissed the question at the expressionless killer.

"Bit of fun, really." The laughter erupted again and Sherlock retightened his grip on the collar of Danger's coat. His nose twitched violently at the stench of blood and death on him. Danger left its arm limply by its sides, grinning endlessly at Sherlock. Killing for fun had occurred in the past, but the horrid way they'd been killed, how many victims there were. An anger of the need to protect swelled up in him when the killer spoke again. "Or was it because I saw them at your grave? I can't remember…" Sherlock hit him against the side of the car again.

"Are you working for _him_?" Sherlock hissed, spitting at the killer's face. No change in expression, just the dark, glinting eyes.

"You know I am, and let me tell you. He's more than just pissed off." Danger changed its approach and a well-aimed punch collided with the bullet wound on Sherlock's abdomen. He grunted in pain as his grip on the collar loosened. The killer grabbed his head and punched him to the ground. If only he wasn't still weak from the assassins beating would he be able to fight back immediately, would he have already retaliated. Instead he found himself still on the ground when the killer was looming, cracking his knuckles ready to beat Sherlock to death, something _he_ would be very glad to hear.

Rolling away from the attack and getting to his feet, waiting for Danger to make a move afterwards. There was a final burst of the psychotic laughter, before a charge, right fist raised. Sherlock side-stepped out of the way, grabbing Danger's wrist and viciously twisting it until it noisily snapped, leaving the skin turning red and purple. The murdered cried in agony and made to hook Sherlock with his left, but was sent to the ground when he stepped round and slammed his foot into the back of his kneecap. He watched Danger deal with the pain, curled up on the ground. Surely it wasn't that easy?

He turned his back to check for any signs of Protection. The beady eyes greeted him and the alternating colours of the siren were not too far now.

Two hands clamped around his neck, large palms and fingers attempting to dig into his skin, a sudden shortage of breath and trying to prize the fingers away. Breaking Danger's wrist hadn't been enough. He dug a knife into the back of Danger's right hand, adding to the pain. He was released from the strangulation, but his next aimed punch never came to be. He had enraged Danger and not weakened him enough at the same time. This version of Danger must have been around for a long time, the strength possessed was much more than the leader. Sherlock was thrown through the air and his back colliding with the brick wall, dust crumbling into his shoulders as he sunk to the ground and numb legs, his vision fading for a few seconds as Danger made its way across the street. He was thrown across the bloody street! He tried to put his knives in palm to be thrown, but Danger had already clamped around his collar and lifted him again. Two punches to the stomach, leaving Sherlock wanting to empty his stomach, the bruising making his skin feel like searing leather.

The air was rushing past him again and he panicked when his ears heard the crashing and cracking beneath him, worried it was his spine deteriorating underneath him. No, it was the already cracked windscreen of the car, sinking under his weight and the cracks growing bigger. Flames grew in front of him and the coughing started when he saw the pillar of smoke swirling up around him. But he could see the flashing blue and red through the smoke and darkness. Danger's capture was nearing. But Sherlock's life was on the line for now.

"Ready to give yourself up?" Danger called through the flames as Sherlock stumbled off the car, meaning to continue the fight. He tried to walk but his legs were still unstable beneath him. The left knuckles of Danger collided with his face, the stitches on his cheek snapping and blood beginning to drip from the wound that had been so close to healing completely. It knocked Sherlock back, the smoke and stars above him, pain caused by the assassin and Danger now slicing through his body. As the sound of multiple sirens began to grow, Danger loomed over him once again. Instead of a punch being aimed and leaving an open for Sherlock to regain his feet, a large foot began crushing his right shoulder, the heel digging into the bite marks.

Crying out in pure agony, feeling the blood warm his skin as it poured out, re-staining the jacket and the curse creating extra pain. The laughter rose again, Danger looking down at him with darkened eyes.

"Death will be happy to claim you again, you'll finally see _him_ in Hell," Danger said, the words flowing out like they had been practised over and over, Danger waiting for this moment to come.

Death. Death couldn't come now, death had been delayed at all costs, and death wasn't going to take him now or ever. Death would never have him! Sherlock cut off his cries, letting the agony build up inside him, gritting his teeth in concentration in a matter of feeble seconds as he raised one of his hands. Danger paid no interest, believing it to be an attempt to push away his foot. A yell of shock when the knife dug into his ankle and the blood poured out.

As the police cars began coming into view at both ends of the street, Sherlock felt another wave of adrenaline begin to course through his body. He collected himself, rising to his feet, and grabbing the killer's shoulders. It was his turn to cause pain. He pushed Danger's head through the glass of a back seat window in the car, the heat of the flames scorching them both. The flames had claimed the front of the car and were making their way through the windshield and lighting up the interior. With the glass scathing the killer's face, he dragged him back out and let out a frenzy of his own, built up from several months of anger and hatred, pain and questions. Danger was slowly brought to his knees with every fist to the face, the occasional blow to the stomach and a kick to the chest. It seemed the fight was Sherlock's.

Each end of the street was blocked off with about three or four vehicles each, a wall of flashing lights lighting up the scene alongside the fire. At that point, with officers exiting the cars and orders being exchanged through radios and shouting, he left the killer alone and stepped back. No-one approached, they didn't know if it was safe or not yet. It seemed safe, Danger was on his knees, crawling towards the car to try and pull himself to his feet. Sherlock had no care; he would just beat him down yet again. Instead he wanted to ask his own questions before the police dragged him away.

"How does he know I'm alive?" Sherlock barked over the flames and sirens, only for the killer to hear, who was gripping the door, broken glass digging into his palms. There was a silence. "What are his plans!?" He began moving forward to interrogate the killer quickly.

"You destroyed his killing network, you weren't exactly subtle," the killer growled, making Sherlock stop and consider for a second. Danger was right; he had killed a large amount of people in the past three years. But they deserved to die, _needed_ to die. The lack of reply to the second question, the one he desperately needed an answer to was aggravating.

"What are his plans!?" He grabbed the shoulder of Danger just as he reached into the car. His answer would not be given, not with the point of the gun aiming straight between in his eyes. His grip on the second and last knife tightened a little more. Danger smiled as Sherlock backed off.

"Foolish little Sherlock, not as great as he once was." More mockery, childish mockery. He stopped when he was an equal distance between the killer and the line of officers behind him. He could hear the shouts from Lestrade and Donovan, and he immediately wondered where John was. He prayed to the voices that he did nothing to try and help him. It would not lead to any good. The killer started a circling motion, the gun cocked at an angle, trying to pick where he wanted to shoot Sherlock to end his life.

"Why would you have such an interest in him still? You see he never told me why he had it out for you, just that I had to kill you as painfully as possible when the opportunity appeared," Danger said, taking Sherlock by surprise as they slowly circled each other.

"He handed me over to death's jaws. That sort of act doesn't fade easily," he answered, hoping that the crowd of officers with raised guns weren't hearing this. The killer stopped. The inferno heated Sherlock's back horridly fast, making him sweat under the layers of clothing. Danger grinned insanely and lowered the gun a little. He was silent, frozen. And then he whispered a few simple words that only Sherlock could hear.

"He'll be coming for you, and death will be your only escape." The anger that suddenly hit Sherlock was unexplainable, but it made him charge nonetheless. He didn't want to use the knife; he wanted to beat the killer, Danger, senseless with his own fists. Danger took the first few blows, but suddenly clamped a single hand around Sherlock's neck, squeezing the life from his lungs and keeping him away at arm's length with the gun aimed at his head. His vision began turning white, his fingers uselessly scraping against Danger's arm. Then, with only the empty warning of Lestrade's protests, the killer was knocked and Sherlock falling to the ground spluttering and gasping for air. He could hear the struggle before he looked up.

The killer was given Sherlock's friend a nasty beating round the face, John's bottom lip just starting to bleed as he was pushed back into the barricade of cars, Lestrade pulling him back as well. Donovan and Lestrade held raised guns at the killer either side of John, attempting another stand-off with him. Danger, now hidden from normal eyes, placed pressure on the trigger with no thought and Sherlock reduced his wanted scream to a shout. John fell from sight behind a car door and he threw his final knife straight into the killer's back. There was a cry of pain, and with resentment fuelling every fragment of his body and soul, Sherlock would not limit himself to defeating Danger.

As police officers scrambled about to call ambulances, check on John and begin closing in on the killer, Sherlock did his best to subdue him by any means. Violence was the only way. He twisted the killer's left wrist to knock away the gun, kicking in towards one police officer and pulling the killer's arm back so he couldn't move it. He kicked the back of both kneecaps to get him to the ground.

He let out three forceful punches onto the killer's shoulders before two police officers appeared beside him and each grabbed the lower arms of the killer, dragging him away. He kicked and struggled when he was on his feet, literally being dragged away towards the newly arrived police van. Sherlock, blocking out all sounds the best he could, tried to head towards where John was meant to be, unable to see the damage for now. Lestrade waved his hand in objection if him stepping any closer. He would have continued on to make sure his best friend was still breathing, feeling the horrid void in his chest re-growing, but another force came into action to stop him. He let sound refill his ears as two officers shouted in alarm at him to watch out.

There was the unmistakeable cry of fury and the wish for him to die as Danger raced up behind him. The void disappeared, turning into an burning rage which filled Sherlock's face, reflecting in his eyes and with one swift motion, he spun round and with hidden force, kicked Danger straight in the chest. Danger rushed through the air and crashed into the side of the flaming car, leaving a dent in the metal. Danger was now knocked out, having possibly died within the killer's body. Sherlock grinned for merely a second, before the sudden depletion in all energy his body possessed vanished, and as his vision darkened, he dropped to his knees, seeing the officers' faces surrounding him just as his memory failed to record the darkened next few moments.

* * *

No sirens, just running engines and flashing lights, the conversation between officers on the other side of the street, unable to eavesdrop. Sherlock watched his exhaled breath swirl in white wisps in front of him, occasionally glancing up at the crisp white stars in the sky now that the smoke and fire had been put out. He pulled the bright orange blanked tighter around his shoulders as he sat in the back of the ambulance.

"You're an absolute idiot." He laughed as John sat next to him on the steps, completely unharmed. "How could you not tell it was filled with rubber bullets?" Sherlock huffed, but it was ruined with a smile straight afterwards.

"It's been a while. I'll be back in form soon." John shook his head and watched the scene with him. After a happy silence between them and observing the officers walking about, two standing outside the back of the van in fear the still unconscious murderer might break out again. Lestrade finished talking to Donovan a few metres away and headed towards them.

"Everything sorted?" John asked and Lestrade looked around, seeming to try and spot a problem.

"Pretty much, dramatic first case with Sherlock back, I have to say." Lestrade seemed more in shock than amusement when he saw Sherlock happily gripping the shock blanket. Though he quickly figured out like John, that it was probably the warmest blanket Sherlock had gotten hold of in a while. He tried not to snigger at their unnecessary care. "What to the medics say about the hit?" He looked at John who lightly knocked his left shoulder two times to show he was okay.

"Perfectly fine, just a few bruises near my old scar. Nothing major, though they said that I might want to take some painkillers the next morning," John answered. There was some laughter between them, leaving a smile on Sherlock's face as they were at a crime scene. The rare times, similar to many of the good memories.

"Right, I'll see you two soon. Tell me when you'll be back properly for cases," Lestrade said, nodding his head and turning away. There was another silence, Sherlock checking again that the two throwing knives Lestrade had sneakily handed him were still in his pocket.

"We should probably head back home," John announced to him and stood ready to leave. Sherlock was a little slower, standing on his feet but still holding the blanket over his shoulders. John looked at him, waiting for Sherlock to do something he couldn't figure out.

"What?" he asked innocently.

"Leave that here, you'll look like a fool." Knowing that home was ahead and much warmer surroundings, his left the bright blanket on the ambulance step. They headed for the quiet street ahead, hoping to hale down a cab for a quick return home. This was the proper return home. Sherlock's undying smile was sure.

* * *

...

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_In death, friendship can be born. The truth is rising like the darkened dead and the dead refuses to fall back. The web I know is collapsing and soon I will no longer be a ghost to you. War is soon to consume this world, and you will be part of it, for the voices have spoken…_

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...

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_**If he thinks that he will walk into this fight, he is doing so blind. He is right to think it a Nest, but he is oblivious to how much danger shall surround him with the first step. We do not sleep, we do not rest, and we do not fall short of combatants. Hell is what we are. Blood is what we seek.**_

_**The sight of both consuming London is what we desire. Seeing him burn in the centre is what I wish.**_

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...

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**END BOOK 1.**


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